


Let Go

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: All these people should be in therapy, Character Study, Epilogue and Cursed Child Compliant (mostly), Friendship, M/M, People who are meant for one another, Pining, Social Justice, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 192,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: Albus Potter gets through life by avoiding his family, working a desk job at St. Mungo's, holding onto grudges, and trying to convince everyone that being the son of the most famous man in the world isn't all it's cracked up to be. Meanwhile, he's determined to be silently in love with his best friend until death.But one day, he sees a pattern that no one else has--that no one wanted him to--and things change forever.A story about stubbornness, forgiveness, finding the person who makes you the best version of yourself, and learning to let go.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Back again! The world of Harry Potter just can't let me go. 
> 
> Like most people, I have my issues with the Cursed Child, but there were so many things about it I found to be intriguing. I liked the idea that Harry wasn't the great father he always assumed he'd be, that Draco Malfoy was allowed in-canon redemptive qualities, and that Slytherins could be allowed to lead a story without simply being the scum of the earth.
> 
> Above all, however, I was captured by Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. I loved the embittered middle child misunderstood by his father and his community; the optimistic son of a wicked dynasty who meets the world with an enthusiasm he knows can never be returned to him. Their friendship was what carried Cursed Child for me (it sure as shit wasn't Voldemort getting it on with Bellatrix Lestrange--don't get me started on how bizarrely out of character that was, and yes I threw a casual fix-it in later on). I am very much an Albus--a holder of grudges, a Slytherin despite the odds--but I wish I was a Scorpius. So I had to write them. At this point, I'm not sure who in this universe is left for me to tackle. Maybe--gasp--I'll have to return to original fic? The horror!
> 
> As always, the warnings all come right up front. There will be no individual chapter warnings. Just in case people are scrolling by, HEY YOU, STOP AND READ THE WARNINGS. This story deals with death. Violent death occurs several times in this story, including both murder and suicide. People who have read my stories know I don't shy away from that, but there's a fairly graphic death described, so if you're not comfortable with that, you'd best stop here. This story has some racial slurs (my very firm head canon is that the Potters are desi). There are mentions of domestic abuse, and one instance where it's shown. Like everything else I've written, this story has a lot of angst, and a lot of hurt feelings. 
> 
> But! It's also a story where people love one another very deeply, even if they hurt each other. It's also funny, and sad, and hopeful. I'm really excited for all of you wonderful people to come along with me on this story, and I hope you give it a chance. There are two parts to the story. A chapter will upload each day, with a week long break between Parts One and Two. 
> 
> So let's get started, shall we?

I nearly choke on my toothbrush when an owl slams into the window.

            Gagging, I hang over the sink, trying to spit out toothpaste. I hear the owl struggling in the brush below the window, but she can wait. If she hasn’t killed herself after all the other times she flew into my windows, I don’t imagine this will be the one that does it.

            I slam the door shut, coughing, as my cat comes racing down the hall. Once I’m certain I won’t choke, I fix my face in a scowl and unlatch the window. Leaning outside, I say, “It’s too early for this, bird. It had better be an emergency.”

            I reach down and scoop Aedesia up with one hand. She’s a tiny white owl and I’d lay money that her vision is impaired in some way, but try telling her owner that. I plant her on the back of the toilet. She staggers a moment, then puts a foot wrong and falls on her back.

            Her leg pops up, offering me the message attached to it.

            Shaking my head, I untie the little scroll. I turn on the tap to clean out the sink while I read it.

            ‘I’m going to propose tonight. What do you think?’

            Rolling my eyes, I wave the scroll at Aedesia. “Bird! This is the literal opposite of an emergency. What do you have to say for yourself?”

            Aedesia croaks, batting her wings against the toilet as she struggles to right herself.

            “Ugh. Useless. I suppose you’ll make me find a pen now.”

            I have to go out into the hallway to get a pen, pushing Zamora back with my foot so she doesn’t attack the owl. She’s not pleased. Usually I let her have at whatever owl arrives on the premises. Really, that’s the most of my worries. The nice thing about a message like this is that I don’t panic over it, not the way I once would have. I’m actually rather indifferent to a message like this, which is a blessing.

            Once I’m back in the bathroom, door closed against my disgruntled cat, I put the scroll up on the wall and write out a reply. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. I’ll see you at lunch.’

            I sit on the toilet lid and go about tying the scroll to Aedesia’s leg. “Make sure you get this to him quickly. Very important stuff here.” I pull the knot tight, then sit back. “Off you go.”

            She stands there, looking at me pitifully. I raise a brow, shrugging. Aedesia lets out a mournful chirp.

            Sighing dramatically, I reach up, grabbing one of the bags of owl treats I keep by all the windows. “You’re a beggar,” I mutter, offering Aedesia a treat. She pecks at my hand, missing the food the first few tries. “Stupid blind bird.”

            I give her a begrudging pat on the head. If the worst thing that happens today is my best friend making an ass of himself, then I’m quite well off. Propose. What nonsense.

            Aedesia hoots at me expectantly. I hold out another treat and she leans for it. She overshoots and plummets. I manage to catch her before she can brain herself on the tiles.

            Stupid bird. I do give her the treat, though.

 

The train goes too fast around a corner and I almost trip off my feet. I lose hold of my book and it goes flying, hitting an old woman on the calf.

            I’ve broken the great rule of British public transit. I’ve forced another human to admit that we both exist. The woman looks at me with the deepest affront. Clearing my throat, I bend down to pick up the book. “Terribly sorry.”

            She sniffs and faces forward again, but her disdain radiates through the train car.

            Cheeks warm, I lean back against the doors. I shove the book into my bag, wishing desperately that I had my headphones back. They were remarkably expensive, which means it’s taking awhile to get them fixed. In the meantime, I’m supposed to navigate the world without that added layer of protection.

            I hold onto one of the bars, looking up as the station is announced. I have a few more before I get anywhere near work. I don’t live in London; I’m up in Bedford. I apparate to Wexford Junction and ride the rest of the way. It’s just too difficult trying to apparate close to work. After that accident last year where two healers apparated onto the same spot near the hospital, there’s all sorts of protective spells in downtown London that won’t let you apparate in. Besides, I don’t mind the commute.

            Usually. If I have my headphones.

            Two opposing waves meet, people coming on and off the train. I’ve positioned myself where I always do. In the corner opposite whichever door people exit from. It’s harder to shove me about if I’m already as far back as I can be. I’m a thin man, and not particularly strong, and I like to be out of the way, regardless of the situation.

            It takes a moment, but the doors close, and we’re off again.

            I have to go to my parents’ tonight.

            See? If I don’t have music to listen to, I have to think about that. I already know I’ll be dreading it the entire day, and now I’ve started thinking about it at—8:20. Typical.

            At least it’s Friday. I’ll get through whatever horrors my family has waiting for me, then I can go out. Admittedly, I will be so exhausted by whatever they put me through that I’ll need a nap and several cups of coffee before leaving the house, but I can make the effort.

            Hypothetically. I do have to get through eight hours of work as well.

            I hear frequently that I’m a glass half empty kind of man. I’m not going to dispute it.

            I try my luck and have a glance around the car. I’ll have broken the rule if I meet anyone’s eyes, but without a book or music I’ll succumb to boredom. Plenty of them are people I recognize. We all take the same route to work every morning, five days a week. I’ve had this job two years now, and I certainly don’t know their names, but I know a lot of the faces.

            Another year. Then who knows what comes next.

            Well. There’s a sight.

            Two men, about my age, are halfway down the car, chatting. It’s not their faces I notice, at least not at first—they are rather attractive. No, it’s the buttons on their lapels. White on top, red on bottom, with opposing colours of text. The pins say _SQUIB RIGHTS_.

            I notice because I have the same pin on my jacket. I glance down at it to make sure it’s there. Yes it is. Clearing my throat, I look up at the ceiling, accepting that they’re both nice to look at. I’m just not the kind of man to approach another one on the Tube on a weekday morning. I’m amenable to being approached, however.

            Look casual. Oh, what am I even doing? What are the odds that some man on the train is going to see that we share the same liberal values and decide that we were meant to be? Slim to none, that’s what. I’m just prone to commute daydreaming is all.

            Fuck right off, I think he’s looking at me. I catch him studying me from my peripheral vision. I nonchalantly glance down the train car.

            He _is_. The one closest to me. He has a halo of auburn hair, and light blue eyes. He’s handsome, but not in a conventional way. Nose too big, mouth too small. But his face works somehow. He’s looking right at me.

            Rare that I pick up during the day. I might be able to get his number if I play this right. I give him a slight smile, then look away. Then I give him another quick glance, just so he knows I’m interested.

            And now I gaze down at the floor. Despite being a glass half empty man, a man who doesn’t like being around others, I’m adept at taking strangers home. Let him come to me.

            I don’t have to wait long. Here he comes. This Friday just became exponentially better.

            “Excuse me.”

            Be much smoother than you are, Albus. Raising my eyes, I smile.

            He’s even better close up. He has a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for pale men. We’d look good together.

            He opens his mouth and says, “Are you Harry Potter’s son?”

            Imagine all my interest being a massive switch on the side of a wall. Then watch that massive switch be slammed down and all the lights snapping off in the building.

            I turn my eyes away. “No. Sorry, mate.”

            He doesn’t seem to be getting the point. And the point is already a sore one. “Come on,” he says, thinking it’s a joke, “I’m sure of it—”

            I snap, “My parents were Death Eaters who died in Azkaban and the last thing I need on my morning commute is someone telling me I look like the man who put them there, so why don’t you fuck off back the way you came—”

            He’s already scrambling away from me. Good.

            Even better, my stop is coming up. Everyone is shying away from me like I’m rabid. Which I suppose I am, at least on that particular topic.

            The train stops and I join the tsunami of people flooding in and out of the car. We’re in the heart of London, so the place is mobbed. I just keep my arms in and set my jaw and plow forwards.

            I’m a few steps off the train when a large, burly man slams into me. I spin backwards and he growls, “Watch it! Fucking Paki.” And disappears into the crowd.

            I stand here, watching everyone around me tense up, then move away without saying anything. It would take so little effort. My wand is in my jacket. I wouldn’t even have to speak. When I get angry—really angry—sometimes I lose control.

            Instead, I do what I always do. I bury it deep, then continue walking. It’s just the cherry on the shit sundae, isn’t it.

 

Like all employees at St. Mungo’s, I go in the back entrance. The receiving door for Purge and Dowse Ltd. is boarded over, looking untouched by the decades. I have to wait in a short line of people in lime robes. I get the occasional envious look. The healers have been lobbying for a decade to change the colours of their robes, but the Ministry always lands on them whenever they do.

            I have a sip of my coffee. One thing I’ll never do is drink the stuff on the fifth floor. St. Mungo’s coffee is notoriously terrible, and everyone likes to make jokes about how it puts people in the hospital—ha ha—but I know for a fact there was a secret inquest last year when five people were admitted for just that. I’ll stick with the Coffee Republic around the corner, thank you.

            The woman in front of me whispers to the wall, then walks through it. I step up, looking at the sign that says, ‘No entry.’

            “Albus Potter,” I murmur. “Records.”

            Nothing happens at first.

            “Look, there’s no need to be cheeky—”

            The sign transforms momentarily, saying, ‘Enter.’ Sighing, I walk through the wall and into the hospital.

            It’s busy, but not chaos like out front. Most of the healers come in at seven. It’s just administrative staff and specialists who come in at nine. People are saying hello to one another, saying how glad they are to reach Friday, making plans for later.

            I slip through them all without attracting any attention.

            I’m up on the fifth floor, behind the tearoom and shop. Records isn’t on any sort of sign for visitors. There’s a byzantine process to go through if you want to access the place, so we only see a few every month. I take a look at the lift. There’s approximately twenty people standing in front of it. Bugger it.

            I walk over to the staff stairwell, pushing open the door. Immediately, the portraits begin diagnosing.

            “Hartwell’s Disease,” one witch says with authority. “Explains the sallow complexion!”

            “That’s not the Potter boy, is it? Not nearly as handsome as his father.”

            “It’s not Hartwell’s, you old charlatan,” a wizard in hot pink robes counters. “It is clearly Bollard’s Vexing. Look at the pouches under his eyes!”

            “ _Hartwell’s_!”

            “ _Bollard’s_!”

            Trooping up the rickety spiral staircase, I reply, “I love coming this way. Being judged first thing in the morning really sort of defines the day, don’t you think?”

            “There’s no reason to be tetchy,” the wizard in pink says. “Make an appointment with a healer to take care of that Bollard’s and those pouches will vanish seconds. Don’t and your fingernails will fall off!”

            “I’ll take it into consideration.”

            “Don’t listen to him!” says the witch, her voice becoming quieter as I reach the next storey of judgment. “Be treated for Hartwell’s or your tongue will grow too large for your mouth!”

            I tune out the voices flooding together, telling me what obscure disease I must have, due to my knobby knuckles, my ashy complexion, my body, my face. The first few days it bothered me. But I went to a healer outside of the hospital just to make sure I wasn’t really dying. She took one look at me after I asked if I might have Rellington’s Bone Shedding Syndrome and said, “Let me guess—recent hire at St. Mungo’s?”

            I get to the fifth floor only a bit out of breath. For me that’s a minor victory. I open the door and step out into the Records Department.

            It’s well lit, I can say that much for it. The light shining in gives a good idea of how everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. Papers zip along the ceiling, folded into birds and airplanes. Most people keep their doors cracked open so that the memos can go in and out. I see people already behind their desks, some under a mountain of paperwork, which makes my skin itch just looking at it. Others have organized everything into neat piles. The only person who consistently has an empty desk is Nadine, the head receptionist. She’s a surly, ancient witch who everyone is too afraid of to ask how she accomplishes such a feat.

            I take a quick glance about. I’ve a few minutes before my shift officially starts. Any luck, Suzette will be on the other side of the offices and I can just get to work in peace.

            So I put my eyes down and walk towards my office.

            I’m about halfway there when Suzette inevitably says from behind me, “Albus.”

            Fuck. Next job I take, I really need to vet whoever’s in charge first. Turning around, I try to look innocent, but I doubt that looks realistic on my face. “Morning, Suzette.”

            Suzette’s head of the Records Department. She’s as tall as me, a solid woman with close cropped greyish blond hair. She has glasses on a chain around her neck, but I’ve never actually seen them on her face. She eyes me over, and I wait to hear what I’ve done to displease her already.

            She exhales through her nose. I don’t know if she gets some kind of pleasure from picking away at me, but she seems compelled to do it. “We’ve spoken about this.”

            “Spoken about what?”

            Suzette glances at my lapel. Ah, so that’s what we’re going with today. “I’ve told you, it’s inappropriate for St. Mungo staff to have accessories that are political in nature.”

            I look at my Squib Rights pin and say, “What’s political about equal rights? That’s a moral question rather than a political one, wouldn’t you think? After all, who’d want to align themselves with a political party that doesn’t believe we’re all equal? Sounds a bit Death Eater-ish, you ask me.”

            Her eyes narrow slightly. I irk Suzette because I’m not entirely under her control. My contract is with the Ministry, not her. She’s notorious for brow beating her employees into automatons who do things exactly as she pleases. Me, well—I’ve never been good about authority figures.

            “Nonetheless, it’s not appropriate for the workplace. Remove it, please.”

            I shrug. “If you like.” I take the pin and slip it into one of my pockets. “Excuse me, I’d better get to my desk—” She clears her throat slightly and I stop. “Yes?”

            “I’m still waiting for your monthly report.”

            “It’s not due until Monday.”

            “Albus, one should learn initiative. Not everything needs to be left to the last moment.”

            “Well, I’ll have it on your desk for Monday. Was there anything else?”

            She looks at my outfit. I’m in tight trousers, a jumper, old trainers, a denim jacket. I can tell that she would love to go into my lack of professionalism when it comes to how I dress, but Suzette knows not to criticize more than two things about me in a morning. After all, I’m good at what I do, and I keep excellent records.

            “No,” she says reluctantly. “Best get to work. Plenty to do.”

            I walk away. When I hear her do the same, I pull out my wand and tap one of my other pins. It transforms from a cobra to violent fuchsia letters asking, ‘Have YOU paid your HOUSE ELF?’

 

I hate and love my job.

            Doing the same thing for eight hours a day, five times a week, can be monotonous. I don’t get on with my coworkers, but again, I rarely get on with anyone. Suzette is a massive pain in my arse. She’s the kind of person who calls everyone by their first name in an effort at camaraderie, but I swear the only reason she doesn’t call me Mr. Potter is because she couldn’t bear to have my sainted father’s name in her mouth when she looks at me. Much as I don’t mind my commute, it’s still two hours a day. I’m alone, forgotten, and my hands are always cracked and sometimes bloody from how dry the dust makes them.

            The good outweighs the bad, however.

            I’m on a three year contract with the Ministry of Magical Health. My job is to collate all admission records into quantifiable categories. Like every other department in the Ministry, they’re incredibly behind when it comes to data collection, and that’s led to some unfortunate incidences. I’m not a researcher—no, I just organize all the information so that the real academics can draw conclusions. I am here to do the grunt work. And I do it quite well.

            My office is one of the neater ones. I do a good sweep with my wand in the morning to get all the dust out, and another one at lunch, and again when I leave for the day. Everything lands in straight small towers of paper that fill the room over the course of the day. My door is closed, to prevent noise coming in. Or out, frankly, because I play music in here, and that’s one of the things Suzette frowns upon. I find that it helps me concentrate, so I don’t particularly care about her opinion.

            There is a small lift in the wall that brings me new stacks of admission forms. Twice a day, I send papers out to go into Permanent Records, and once a day reports to the Ministry. I keep my eyes on specific pieces of information for certain groups. The amount that comes through this room is staggering.

            Which is to say, despite being a lowly admin, I have access to the medical information of every single person who comes through St. Mungo’s.

            Over the past two years, I’ve seen the names of every person who’s come into the hospital. I know their ages, their addresses, their occupations, their entire demographics. I know their complaints. I’m not going to deny I get a strange sense of power from it. I do. I sit here in my office, away from everyone else, privy to the secrets of the entire magical population.

            I go through the papers at a punishing pace, because if I didn’t, I’d drown. The thing about witches and wizards is that they’re always injuring themselves in new and interesting ways, and there’s a reason St. Mungo’s is bursting at the seams. I let the details wash over me, setting an alarm so that I don’t miss lunch.

            Six-year-old boy, feet swelled to five times their size. Breakout of chlamydia in Barthaby’s Seniors Residence. Mother of six with turnip lodged in ear. Amateur Quidditch player missing both knees, claims she woke up without them. An auror under a Whispering Cloud, severe case, referred to the fourth floor and mind healing, probable self inflicted curse. A House Elf discovered unconscious and unable to rouse, obvious butterbeer abuse but denied by owner. Indigent Muggle accidentally brought to A&E, claiming to be a wizard who lost his powers. Mute girl from Blackpool suddenly starts speaking in what’s apparently Balanta, is of Irish-German descent. Elderly witch with broken hip after broom accident. Splinching. Curses. Spell damage. An exploding liver.

            I start by taking in the entire document with a look, then I break it down into its various components. I tally off gender, age group, category of injury or illness, etc. To make sure my numbers are accurate, I copy each data piece off the paper, shrunken, onto a running scroll, one for each category. Anonymized, of course.

            I know the various studies that are being run by the Ministry, and any time I see a data set I think might interest them specifically, I copy them onto their own parchment for case studies. It would be a terrible amount of paper, but I shrink it all to such a size that it’s barely readable to the naked eye. I keep my eyes peeled for cases that might interest specific researchers. Davish Llewyn is doing one on self inflicted injuries as related to job stress, so I copy the admission package for the auror, save the man’s name and address, and put it in one of the stacks. There’s a whole team doing research on substance abuse in magical creatures, so the House Elf gets copied to them.

            I’m not the smartest man, or the most ambitious man—Slytherin be damned—but I’m very good at putting everything in its proper place.

            Working steadily, I flick my wand through page after page, copying text this way and that, not really absorbing the raw data. Admittedly, taking a pause here and there when I see something interesting, but after two years of reading people’s medical records, very little really surprises me. You can only hear about magical folk inserting things incorrectly so many times before it ceases to be titillating.

            Grandmother pranked by grandchildren, vomiting flammable bubbles. Family of four with an undetermined illness that’s turned them all turquoise. Potionmaker with elephant trunk. A man from Sierra Leone who woke up without his fingers.

            When I feel like my eyes will cross, I switch over to organizing the stacks. I go through the categories. For age, I separate by ten year groups. I have a document that keeps a running tally of the numbers. So far today I have 12 0-10s, 5 10-20s (no surprise, the 11-18s are all up at Hogwarts), 8 20-30s, 7 30-40s, 7 40-50s, 8 50-60s, 7 60-70s, 13 70-80s, 15 80-90s, 8 90-100s, and 5 100+. The groups that always get in the most trouble are the youngest and 70-90. Never fails. The children can’t control their magic and are more susceptible to disease; the 70-90s are old enough to not give a shit about making stupid choices or are over confident in what they’re still able to do. After they reach 90, their bodies have slowed enough to stop a lot of the madness.

            I go through stack after stack, organizing the data, then return to the admission reports. I’m always busiest in the morning, dealing with the overnight reports. I spend most of my morning on the admission packages, and only really dig into organizing the data in the afternoon, with one last go around of everything an hour before the end of the day.

            Toddler with three forks stuck up his nose. Attempted petty theft at Gringott’s, irreversible spell damage. Elderly wizard accidentally chopped off hand and reattached it, hand now green and gelatinous. Wizard with horse’s tail and carrot in rectum—

            Peter Highbellow.

            I pluck the paper from the air. Unconventional insertion might no longer be titillating for me, but sometimes it can be quite telling. Leaning back in my chair, I bounce slightly and read the admission form, this time focusing completely.

            Peter Highbellow, 33 years of age, residing in West Brompton, brought in just past midnight March 31. Presented with functioning horse’s tail, brown in colour. Twelve centimeter carrot with foliage attached protruding from patient’s anus. Patient obviously intoxicated and unaware of location. Found roaming streets of Chelsea and brought in by aurors. Once sobering potions were applied, patient denied anything was amiss and vanished both tail and carrot. Refused further care, discharged self at 1:45.

            Now, a few things jump out at me.

            First and foremost, Peter Highbellow is an accountant for the Department of Magical Education. What in the ever-loving fuck is he doing to afford a flat in West Brompton? The Highbellows don’t come from money, so I know he’s not living off an inheritance. Galleons to garters he’s taking the Ministry for everything they’ve got.

            Yes, there’s also the carrot thing, but I don’t find that nearly as curious.

            I bend back in my chair, looking out into the hall. Not a person to be seen.

            With a flick of my wrist, I copy the entire package. I put it into the upper drawer of my desk, then sit back up. There’s only a half hour til lunch.

            Auror with eagle wings. Velvet footstool suspected of being a missing grandmother unable to transfigure back to original form, turned out to just be a footstool. Man with a beard that attempted to strangle him. Spell damage, transfiguration damage, rare disease, and on and on and on.

 

I’m first to the table, which gives me a slight, smug smile. The both of us are always inveterately early. If I’m not at a place five minutes before I need to be, I’m late.

            The day is typical London, overcast, dreary, except it doesn’t feel like rain. I’m a bit chilly in only my denim jacket, so I wrap my green scarf around my neck, then take my lunch from my bag.

            The park isn’t too far from the Ministry. A lot of their employees come out here for lunch if they don’t go to the cafeteria on site. There will be more of them here once the weather begins warming, but for now I only spot a handful of magic folk. I even know most of their names, though I make it a personal point of pride to never enter the Ministry unless under extreme duress. Except the cafeteria, of course. There are traditions to uphold.

            For lunch, I have a veg sandwich and an apple. And a wedge of cheese. I’ve tried being vegan but I passed out on the third day, so I think vegetarian is as far as I’ll ever make it. I have the same cup of coffee I’ve been working on for three and a half hours, and I give it a surreptitious poke with my wand to warm it up again.

            I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite, then get my book. I’m halfway through an old murder mystery by Rothilda Rupchic, and I already know that the ghoul did it, but it’s well written and I needed a break after rereading _King Lear_.

            I’m just getting to the chamber scene, which is always my favourite bit, having the protagonist reveal how they came to their ornate conclusion, when a trembling voice says, “Mr. Potter?”

            Sighing, I don’t bother looking up. “No.”

            She sits down anyways. I don’t lift my eyes from the book, but I do a lot of my looking from my peripheral vision. Middle aged, woeful face, holding a bag like my grandmother did, probably with half her possessions in it.

            “Mr. Potter,” she says, “my name’s Honora Glopshawl—”

            “I don’t care.”

            “My son—my Alastair—he’s gotten himself in a spot of trouble with the aurors. A misunderstanding—a terrible misunderstanding. He was just hanging out with some friends, you see—he had no idea what they were up to—”

            “I still don’t care.”

            “He’s a good boy—just in the wrong place at the wrong time, you see—oh, Mr. Potter, could you please talk to your father? He’s such a good boy, he only made a mistake, and he didn’t mean to, he’s only eighteen, if you could just tell your father—”

            I finally put down my book and look her straight in the eyes. “Madam. Let me make this perfectly clear. My father would give precisely zero shits about your son, regardless of whether I interceded or not. My father, despite his sterling reputation, cares about one thing, and it’s exactly that: his reputation. I’m not going to debase myself for no reason for a criminal. Whatever your son did, he can pay for it. It’s no concern of mine. Good day to you.”

            I pick my book up, turning the page.

            It takes a few seconds, but Mrs. Glopshawl says, “I heard, but I didn’t believe it. You’re terrible.”

            “The worst,” I agree, then wave her off. “You may leave.”

            She stands. She also takes the time to say, “Your parents must be ashamed of you.”

            I nod. “You’ve no idea.” I turn the page, as Gracille, the intrepid reporter from the city, begins to confront the suspects. Mrs. Glopshawl stands there another moment before I hear her toddle off.

            I’m well aware that people think I’m cruel. That I’m unapproachable. That’s for the best. When they thought there might be hope for me, I was mobbed by people who wanted access to my father. There’s been precious few people in my life who have seen me as I am, instead of a means to an end.

            “Making friends?”

            “Always,” I reply.

            Scorpius drops into the recently vacated seat across from me with a resounding thud. “Yeah, you draw people to you like honey brings flies.”

            “If this is your way of telling me I’m sweet, I’m flattered.”

            “No, on second thought, it was a misguided use at metaphor. Like flies to arsenic, maybe. Are flies attracted to arsenic? This metaphor really is falling apart.”

            I lay down my book. I give him my attention, as I always do.

            He’s in the grey today. Scorpius’ wardrobe is typically pristine. One of the traits he got from his father. He’s left the robes at the office, just clad in grey slacks and vest, a white shirt with snake cufflinks. “Have to look the part!” he told me cheerfully once when I asked why he dressed so well for his lowly position. “Dress like you’re going places, and you will!”

            “That was a simile.”

            Scorpius answers, “Don’t be pedantic,” but he doesn’t do it with a roll of the eyes like our other friends would. He knows me so well that all my sharp edges seem to just roll over him, rarely meeting their mark. He has his lunch in a brown paper bag, which he starts unpacking, so I continue eating. “Who was she?”

            “I’ve already forgotten.”

            “You forget nothing.”

            “I know. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

            “You don’t believe that for a second. You’re a dragon atop the golden hoard.”

            “Is this your subtle way of telling me you finally read _Beowulf_?”

            “It is not. I’ll get there eventually.” Once his lunch is unpacked before him, Scorpius folds his arms on the table and looks at me. “So?”

            Of our small group, Scorpius is the one who got the looks. Skin china-doll fair, silver eyes, corn silk curls. Cheeks always tinted pink. Delicate and handsome all at once.

            I take a bite of my apple and shrug. “So?”

            He drops his head a second. “ _So_ —I’m going to propose to Rose tonight.”

            Not missing a beat, I reply, “How will it be different from the other two times?”

            “It will be different because the time is right.” I raise a brow so high I can feel it encroaching on my hairline, but Scorpius is undeterred. “When I first asked her, we were barely out of Hogwarts. We were too young, she was right about that. Last time I asked, she was trying to get promoted, she had to focus on work, it wasn’t a good time.”

            “Scorpius.”

            “What?”

            “Should you say the obvious or should I?”

            “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Oh no, of course not. It’s nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been going mad the past few weeks about how distant she’s been, and this certainly isn’t some last ditch effort to save the relationship.”

            “It is not,” Scorpius insists. Shaking my head, I keep eating. Scorpius pats his hands on the table as he tries to make his points. “She’s _always_ said that we would be married—”

            “Not in years—”

            “That we just had to wait for the right time, and now that the bill is finally wrapping up—”

            “Oh yes, let’s hope for that, shall we? Let’s hope my bigoted, ignorant cousin pushes through her vile law so that you two can plan a wedding in peace.”

            Scorpius drops his head back on his shoulders, groaning. “Can we not get into this right now—” 

            Leaning forward, I say, “Yes, let’s _ban_ Squibs from Hogwarts, shall we? Let’s have an actual law pass through the Wizengamot creating an inferior legal class of humans. That’s not alarming at all.”

            “It’s not about creating a second class,” Scorpius says weakly.

            “It bloody well is. What’s she going to ban Squibs from next? St. Mungo’s?”

            “It’s not about—she’s not _banning_ Squibs from Hogwarts, just from attending, which they already don’t—I can’t believe I’ve let you do this to me again, you’re baiting me—”

            “ _I’m_ not baiting you. I’m simply reminding you that your girlfriend is a bigot on the verge of disenfranchising an entire subsection of the magical community and that you don’t have the pluck to say anything about it.”

            “I am not here to take sides,” Scorpius says stubbornly. “Everyone has valid points, and we’re getting off track.”

            “You know, there’s a term for people who don’t take sides.”

            “Common sense.”

            “Coward.”

            Scorpius looks at me in consternation. I do feel strongly on the topic—Rose, despite being my cousin, despite having dated my best friend for seven years, despite being one of the brightest people I’ve ever known, is also power hungry to the point of damaging the magical community—but I do also enjoy winding Scorpius up.

            “I’m going to ask her to marry me,” Scorpius says.

            “Going to use the same ring you used the other two times?” I respond, having another bite of apple.

            Exhaling, Scorpius says, “Yes, it was my mother’s ring—”

            “Third time’s the charm, eh?”

            “Why do I get the impression you’re not taking this seriously?”

            “Because I’m not.”

            “Well, you should. I’m going to ask her to marry me, and she’ll say yes. The time is right, we’ve been together seven years, it’s time we should start having children—everything is in the proper place.”

            I don’t have the heart to state the truth. Rose has no interest in marrying Scorpius. She’s a rising star at the Ministry, already Junior Minister of the Department of Magical Education at the age of 24. She’s the daughter of the former Minister, a position—perish the thought—she’ll likely hold herself in ten to fifteen years. Scorpius, for all his striving, is still barely above an entry level position in the Department of Magical Housing. Not because he’s not good at his job—he’s brilliant—or because he doesn’t try—he tries harder than any person I know—but because he’s a Malfoy. And there’s no changing that.

            In the end, Rose will let him loose. My cousin is coldly logical. She’s taken this disgusting political position to distinguish herself from my aunt, not from any deep personal conviction. Rose will stay with Scorpius long enough to prove that she’s not swayed by opinions about her personal life, then dump him for someone more appropriate. My money has always been on Tim, the current Minister’s son, and Hugo’s friend. Rose will never marry Scorpius.

            I tell myself this whenever I worry otherwise.

            “Best of luck,” I say.

            “You know,” Scorpius says, “if you weren’t always so pessimistic about every little thing—”

            “I wouldn’t be me. Besides, I just told you, best of luck.”

            “You’ll have to be my best man, you know. You’ll have to make up with Rose.”

            I point to my Squib pin, back in pride of place on my jacket. “So help me Merlin, I’ll wear this as my boutonniere if I’m in the wedding party.”

            “You’ll be my best man, won’t you?”

            “Of course I will. I’ll also bring Rylance McTavish as my date,” I say, naming the head of the Squib Protection League. He’s quite fit. I’ve made the effort once or twice, but he continues to be straight, which is a tragedy.

            “That’s your prerogative. I’m not going to make a big show of it. Just her and I at home tonight. No fuss, just say, ‘Rose, I love you with all my heart, will you marry me?’ Earnest. Straight forward.”

            “Don’t want a repeat of the balloon fiasco.”

            Grimacing, Scorpius says, “No. I found one stuck in the attic last month, did I tell you? I had to set it on fire to finally bring it down. Rose was dreadful cross about it.”

            “I’ll just put it out there, but if she says no, there’s plenty of suitable women out there who—”

            “ _No_ ,” Scorpius says strongly. “I don’t want other women. You know I don’t. I only want her.”

            It’s one of the most obnoxious things about him. Beyond the relentless optimism and built-in armour against my barbs, that is. Scorpius has never show an interest in anyone but my cousin. I’d say it was obsessive, but it’s not. He’s just in love with her, a kind, attentive partner who’s always put her needs above his own. The clueless bastard.

            “Fair enough. All the best, Scorpius, I’m sure it will be a stunning success.”

            He smiles. “Good of you to say that, even though I know you don’t mean a word of it. So—off to your parents’ tonight, then?”

            I drop my sandwich, and he grins at me cheekily. Narrowing my eyes, I cross my arms and say, “You sure you wouldn’t rather come with me instead? Act as my buffer?”

            “Yeah, everyone’s so comfortable when I’m there.”

            The truth is, Scorpius has been invited to several family dinners over the past year, but I’ve never told him about it. I’d rather keep him safe from my family, thank you very much. “I’m half tempted to wander into the infectious ward to see what I can pick up in the next four hours.”

            “You can only do that so many times before they catch on.”

            “To be fair, I only did it once. On accident.”

            “Albus.”

            “All right, it wasn’t an accident, but I didn’t know the rash would be that severe, did I.” Sighing, I say, “They’re all going to be there.”

            In surprise, Scorpius says, “What, Lily too?”

            “Yeah, I guess we’re giving that another go.”

            “Unexpected.”

            “I suspect Mum’s put a protective spell over all the valuables. I mean, the ones Lil hasn’t already stolen.”

            “How long’s she have this time?”

            “Three months. Right after James’ thing.”

            “What’s it like to finally be the most well adjusted of your siblings?”

            “I’ve always been the most well adjusted, only no one’s cared to notice before.”

            “You know what’s amazing? You said that with a straight face.”

            “Only time this face has ever been described as thus, mate.” I break the wedge of cheese in half and toss him a piece. Scorpius catches it, then begins picking it apart. “Any word on that promotion?”

            “Just around the corner,” Scorpius says with certainty. “The Minister’s secretary is retiring soon, and I have seniority. It’s all going to start happening, Albus. Mark my words.”

            I could tell him it won’t. I could tell him he’ll be passed over, like he has been for the last five years. Instead, I smile and say softly, “Cheers.”

 

We’re about to part ways at the corner when Scorpius says, “I’ll owl you. When she says yes. I’ll want you to be first to know.”

            I glance at him, and see that under the surface, he’s a ball of nerves. The past two months, Rose has hardly been home, always at the Ministry. She’s never there for dinner, cancels all their plans, and when she is there, she hardly says more than two words to him. The last time we were all together was my uncle’s 50th birthday at the start of March, and she was positively cold to Scorpius.

            And Scorpius, he might be a relentless optimist, but he also works himself in circles. He’s tried scheduling dates, buying her books, making her dinner to have at the office, giving her space, anything and everything. To be frank, this is the nuclear option.

            “You don’t have to,” I say.

            “I want to. I want you to know the good news.”

            Stopping, I tell him, “But if it’s not good news—”

            “It will be.”

            “If it’s not, it’s not the end of the world. All right? She’s said no before. She might again.”

            “Not this time,” Scorpius insists. I don’t know if he really believes it or if he’s attempting to convince himself. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll understand. When you meet the right fellow, and you fall in love, it will make sense.”

            Making a fool of myself because I fell in love with the wrong person. Yes, I could never understand that. I look at his eyes, seeing how bloodshot they are. “You’re right. Send that stupid blind owl over, if you think she can find the place in the dark.”

“I don’t know why you’re always going on about that,” Scorpius says, pulling me into a hug. “She sees perfectly fine.”

            I pat his back, sighing. “Yeah, 20/20 vision, that one.”

            Scorpius steps away, giving my arm a light hit. “Don’t hex anyone tonight.”

            “You sure your father wouldn’t adopt me?” I ask with a weak laugh.

            “You wouldn’t want to be a Malfoy,” Scorpius says, walking away.

            I call after him, “You wouldn’t want to be a Potter!”

            I wait to make sure he gets across the street all right—he has a terrible habit of not looking both ways when he’s tired—then I turn back in the direction of St. Mungo’s.

            My eyes catch on a figure across the street. He’s nattily dressed in a green and purple suit, with a turquoise shirt. He sits on the side of a concrete statue, eating a sandwich.

            He catches my eyes, and raises a brow.

            I give him a slight nod, and as I walk away, raise my hand, showing him five fingers, then three. I turn around the corner, and walk to St. Mungo’s.

 

The back door doesn’t give me any sass when I try entering the hospital. I step inside, and nearly into Healer Morrow.

            He gives me an irritated look, but I see that he’s being pursued. A young woman with curly brown hair, exhausted about the eyes, desperate. Patient family, make no mistake.

            “Please, _sir_ ,” she pleads, as I step around them. It’s 1:30, so there’s no one lined up for the lift. “Please, I know that with a little more time—”

            “Miss Vega,” Morrow sighs. I jab the button for the fifth floor, trying to mind my own business. More or less. I’m a terrible eavesdropper, and I know it. “It’s been months with zero sign of progress. He has to be moved to the Janus Thickey Ward. It’s not negotiable.”

            “It’s not the proper place for him! That place is for people who won’t get better—”

            “Miss Vega, we’ve spoken about this—”

            “I want a second opinion. I want someone else to look at him.”

            The lift is stuck on the third floor. I might be a snoop, but it’s almost unbearable, hearing a family member who refuses to listen to a healer. Not like they haven’t trained for years. And they don’t just ship people off to the Janus Thickey if there’s hope.

            “You’ve had second opinions. And third opinions, and fourth. In fact, you’ve had the opinions of the finest healers St. Mungo has to offer. Your brother has taken a bed downstairs for far longer than has been necessary. The ethics board has reviewed his case, and this is their decision. And mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

            “Please—”

            “Your brother is being moved as we speak. You’ll find him on the fourth floor. Excuse me.”

            The lift finally begins coming down. I tap my toe. Don’t let her get on the lift with me. I’ve little patience for complaining about hospital procedure. I know it’s inexplicable at times, but I’m also strangely proprietary of the place after two years.

            The door opens, and I quickly step back. There’s a mass of cactus emerging from inside. A healer is floating it with her wand, covered in prickles. “Out of the way!” she yelps, and I press myself against the wall. She rushes past me, and I hear someone cry out. “I said, out of the way!” The healer bustles off.

            The girl with the curly hair is holding a hand to her face. She’s staring after the healer. When she lifts her hand, the cut on her cheek wells with blood.  

            I look at the open lift, then back to the girl. Fuck. “You should go to Admitting.”

            She looks at me. “Sorry?”

            “Whatever that was, you should get your cheek looked at.”        

            “No. No, I need to—” She stops herself. She doesn’t seem to know what to do.

            This is more involved than I like to be in anything to do with the hospital. Wiggling my ankle, I say, “Listen. Go to Admitting. Say that a healer just accidentally cut you and walked away without checking to see if she’d done any damage. Say you want to sue under Provision 736. 736, understand? They’ll have your face fixed in about ten minutes. Lean on them hard enough, you could probably keep your brother out of the Janus Thickey awhile.” I turn away, hitting the button for the lift again. The doors reopen, and I step inside. “You’re right, you know. He goes in there, he’s never coming out. They just leave people there to die.”

            The doors close.

 

End of the day. I’ve cleared out every single pile of paper. They’ve either gone to Permanent Records or to the Ministry. When I come in on Monday, there will be a weekend’s worth of paper to go through, but I can worry about that later.

            I lock the door to my office—I do my own cleaning, so there’s no reason for the janitor to go in—then give a quick look both ways before making a quick escape to the stairs. Everyone else is chatting, talking about going out for drinks. I keep my head down.

            “Albus.”

            Fuck me sideways with a centaur’s dick. Can I please not just get out of here? “Yes, Suzette?”

            She’s giving me the same expression I got this morning. “I thought before you left I’d have that report on my desk.”

            “I’m sorry you’ve forgotten since earlier, but it’s not due until Monday. We discussed it this morning, remember?”

            “I thought our conversation might have inspired you to show some initiative.”

            “No, I was too busy clearing the deck before I left for the weekend. Pity no one else seems to have done the same.” I lean to the side, having a look down the hall into her office. “Late night, I see? Looks like you still have plenty to go through.”

            Suzette is studying me so intently I half expect her to try legilimens on me. Tough. I’m by no means a great wizard, but one thing I’m quite adept at is keeping other people out of my mind.

            Whatever she’s trying to find, she fails. Standing straighter, Suzette says, “I’ll expect the report first thing on Monday.”

            “As per my contract, the monthly report is due end of day on the first Monday of the following month. So I will have it for you by the end of the day on Monday.” I open the door to the staircase. “Have a good weekend.”

            The portraits immediately start diagnosing me, but it’s easier to ignore them. It’s a Friday. Yes, I have to be at my parents’ in an hour’s time, and yes, Suzette will still be passive aggressive on Monday morning, but for now I have a weekend to myself.

            Besides, I finished that report nearly a week ago. I’m only holding onto it to spite her.

            Enough of this place. I need to get to the Tube.

            I have an appointment in Gunnersbury.

 

I find Sian on the outer edge of the wildlife reserve. He looks out of place, in his purple and green, absentmindedly eating something out of a paper bag. Every time I’ve ever met up with the man, he’s had something in his mouth. I don’t understand it, thin as he is. I’m not one to talk. I’m practically skin and bones.

            When Sian sees me, he gives me a two fingered wave, then goes back to whatever he’s studying. I follow his gaze to a few birds up in the trees. They’re picking determinedly at something.

            I sit beside him on the bench. “Bird watching?”

            “I think they’ve killed and eaten one of their own.”

            “They have not. Those are sparrows. They’re not carnivores.”

            Sian shrugs. “Sure look it.” He offers me the bag. Popcorn. It smells of chemicals masquerading as butter. I grimace and shake my head. “Suit yourself. Good of you to come out on a Friday.”

            “I’m supposed to be at my parents’ in a half hour, so it’s no trouble. Saves me having to make small talk.”

            Sian raises his brow, but doesn’t push the topic. He asked me once if I was interested in telling him about my family, and when I told him no, he never asked again. He puts the bag of popcorn down on the bench, then brushes off his hands.

            Without having to be asked, I take an index card out of my jacket pocket and pass it to him. Everything on it is shrunk so small that it can barely be read. Still, Sian is able to decipher it as if it were clear as day.

            I look up. There was a little snow this winter, but it melted weeks ago. All that’s left is brown, brown, brown. I’m not fond of summer, but I’ll be glad to have things green again.

            Sian reads silently beside me. I don’t ask him if he can use any of it. By this point, I know what will interest him and what won’t.

            “West Brompton,” he says. “How’s he affording that?”

            “Thought that might catch your eye.”

            Sian makes a sound from the back of his throat. “I can use the carrot bit as well, should it come to it. Imagine all the puns in the headlines. I hate puns.”

            “The lowest form of word play,” I agree.

            Sian slips the card into his pocket. “The others are worth a bit as well. You’re getting quite good at this, Albus.” He pulls out his wallet, and begins leafing through bills.

            I look at him flatly. “Sure you don’t want to just leave it on the night stand?”

            “Oh, cheer up, love. You’ve made quite the pretty penny today.” Sian holds out a small stack of paper money. “You wouldn’t have made nearly this much, gobbling down the preacher’s cock.”

            I take the money and count through it. It’s Muggle money. The Ministry doesn’t bother tracking Muggle bank accounts, not that I keep much in mine. I prefer to have my money where I can access it easily. Or destroy it, should the authorities ever come knocking. It’s smart to have a large reserve of paper money on hand, something I learned from Mr. Malfoy.

            Of course, if someone just decides to take it, you’re fucked.

            After the first ten bills, I pause. “What’s the extra for?”

            “My employer wanted to show her appreciation, like. A yearly bonus, if you prefer.”

            I consider declining, but that would be stupid. Sian and I are in unique position. I don’t know who he works for, and his boss doesn’t know who I am. I entered into this arrangement of my own free will, knowing what it would cost me if it went wrong. I’m in it for the money, so I’m not going to complain when extra comes my way.

            “My thanks to your employer, then.” I tap the money with my wand, disguising it as tissues, and stuff it into my bag. “Was there anything particular you’d like me to look for?”

            “Tis, but you’ll claim the moral high ground.” Sian smiles slyly at that.

            There’s very little moral high ground to be had here. “What if I didn’t?”

            Lifting his shoulders, Sian says, “There’s a woman at Gringott’s. Shelley Tieran. She brought her daughter in last week. I know someone who’s quite curious about the particulars.”

            I have few scruples and zero illusions about what I’m doing. I sell confidential medical information through a middle man to the highest bidder. I’m a crook, and there’s no way for me to justify what I’m doing. Nonetheless, I have a single line that I draw. I want nothing to do with anything involving children.

            I smile at him crookedly. “Ah. The high ground it is.”

            “Aren’t you the saint.” Sian picks up his popcorn again, searching through it for a good kernel. “My love to your nearest and dearest.”

            “Ugh. Don’t remind me.” I tighten the knot of my scarf, then push the hair back from my forehead.

            “You’re looking all right these days.”

            I look over at him. Sian gazes back, calm as always. “You know,” I tell him, “I used to be flattered by you saying that, until I realized you’d fuck anything with two legs.”

            Sian scoffs. “That’s a bit discriminatory, isn’t it? I’d fuck ‘em regardless whether they had legs or not.”

            “See you next month,” I say, standing up.

            “You know where I’ll be.” He snaps his wrist and the popcorn goes sailing unnaturally far, pegging one of the sparrows. It flaps into the air with an offended squawk.

            Shaking my head, I disapparate.

 

I come out at the end of the lane. Once I have a look at my childhood home, I seriously consider turning around and checking out that bar in Brighton I’ve heard about.

            Only Mum peeks out the front window. She’s seen me, so it’ll be hard to escape now. She waves at me with a bright smile. Sighing, I wave back, then start down the lane.

            My parents have lived in the same house since before I was born. They bought it planning to have plenty of children, and I imagine they’ve kept it after we all moved out in the hopes that there will someday be grandchildren running about. They’re probably having the first pangs of worry about that. We’ve entered breeding age, but we’re all hopeless in our own ways.

            My hope is that they’ll convince Granddad to move in with them. They have the space, and they’re not far from Ottery St. Catchpole. None of us like the thought of him out at the Burrow by himself. But he’s dead set on never leaving, and I can’t say I blame him, not really. I’ve been in my house three years now, and I would kill the first person who tried to dislodge me.

            The front door opens, and Mum steps out on the porch. “Cutting it close,” she calls.

            “Don’t tell me I missed Dad quizzing everyone on what we intend to do with the rest of our lives. I’d be heartbroken; you know that’s my favourite part of these get togethers.”

            Mum takes a breath, fixing me with a look. “Are you going to be like this the whole time you’re here?”

            I nod, climbing the steps and opening my arms. “Only if I have to deal with my brother,” I answer as Mum wraps her arms around my waist. “Or my sister. Or my father. Or you, if you decide to really get going about the Harpies again.”

            “The coach this season is _abominable_ ,” Mum mutters against my chest. She steps back, giving me a good look. I don’t try to look more cheerful or more unhappy. I don’t pretend with Mum. I don’t pretend with anyone, really, but her least of all. We don’t always see eye to eye, but I know she love me. Mum settles on, “You look good.”

            Which is obviously a bold-faced lie. “Thank you. You look—like my mother.”

            Mum rolls her eyes and pushes me inside. “Oh Al. You and your silver tongue.”

            The door closes behind me, and I cringe. Only for a moment. Shucking my shoes, I say, “So? The fine china disappeared yet?”

            Crossing her arms, Mum says, “Promise me—”

            “I’m not making any promises.”

            “Albus—”

            “I’ll be here, I will do my best, but if you expect me to be kind, then we both know you’ll be disappointed.”

            Mum frowns, but she slips her arm through mine. “Do you know why you’re so sour all the time?” she asks, guiding me down the hall. “Your heart’s too big, and you’re afraid of it being broken. So hit them before they hit you.”

            “Nah. I’ve never won in a fight.”

            “You win all the fights you’re in.”

            “I mean physically. I’ve actually avoided most physical fights. I somehow avoided that Gryffindor quality of blundering into all situations flailing my fists.”

            “Cunning, cunning.”

            We look at one another. There are new lines leading from Mum’s eyes. I bend my head down, and we press our foreheads together. We gaze into one another’s eyes, smiling slightly.

            Mum is the closest thing I have to a safe place in this house. But she has to be that for everyone else too.

            I hear voices from the dining room, and tense up. Mum drags me forward. “Oh, it’s not that bad. Don’t be so melodramatic all the time.”

            “Yeah. Melodramatic.”

            She pulls me through the doorway, and there’s no running now. Everyone is seated at the table. The food is waiting to go on plates. They look at me, clearly waiting on me to start.

            “Good of you to join us,” Dad says. Then he does what he always does. He flinches. Like he knows he said the wrong thing to me, but can’t figure out why, and can’t think of what he should have said instead.

            I inhale, stepping towards the table. “Evening, everyone.”

            Same as always, I have one side of the table to myself. Lily and James are across from me. It’s tradition at this point. Stems from when we were kids, and James bullied me so badly that he wasn’t allowed to sit beside me at the table any longer.

            “Good to see you,” James says.

            I give a little nod, taking my seat. I’m not going to tell him it’s good to see him, because he looks like warmed over shit.

            “Al,” Lily says, looking uninterested.

            “Lily,” I reply, pulling my napkin into my lap.

            My presence has obviously created a pall over the proceedings. I feel like whenever I walk into a room with these people, the conversation stops. Like I’m some sort of blight visited upon them.

            No one says anything a second. Then Mum says, far too chipper, “Let’s eat, shall we?”

 

My family is a paradox. I feel like I know them utterly. I also feel like we’re absolute strangers whenever we’re in the same room.

            Mum’s doing her best. She always does. She’s the glue that’s kept our queer little group even tangentially united. We might not care for each other, but we adore her. Any time the conversation flags, which is frequently, she changes the topic, or tells a story.

            She’s getting older, which frightens me. She’s not _old_ , I don’t mean that, but I remember when her hair was all red, and she would do laps around the property at top speed. She was strong enough that I remember being little and she would lift all three of us at once. Only for a few seconds, but still. Now she’s gotten quite thin. Her short hair is shot through with grey, and the red in her hair is not as bright as I remember. She’s 49, same as Dad, and it’s hard to look at her and know that she’s going to just keep getting older. We all are, but with Mum, I guess I feel a bit differently about it.

            Mum reaches out, squeezing James’ shoulder. “Get a bit of that meat there, love. Put some colour in your cheeks.”

            He smiles wanly, and does what she says. That’s James in a nutshell. Follow literally any instruction given to him.

            She’s right, though—he’s pale. He’s usually somewhere between Lily and I when it comes to complexion, but he’s downright ashy, which is my purview, thank you very much. James looks the most like Dad, but lighter, more solid along the jawline. His hair is tameable, and he’s handsome, enough that he would use it as a weapon. He’s been knocked down a few pegs the last few months, though.

            I can’t help but take a glance at his arm. Or rather, where his arm was. Just an absence now, sleeve neatly sewed shut at the right shoulder.

            James is an auror. Was. Is. I’m not sure if he’s going back or not. We certainly haven’t spoken about it. Three months ago, his arm was cursed off. No spelling it back or growing a new one. He got a medal, and there were all sorts of headlines in the paper about a third generation of heroic Potters.

            Of course, I know the real story, but I doubt he’s aware of that.

            “How’s work been, Dad?” Lily asks.

            Dad has a mouthful of food. He glances at her, giving a little bit of a nod, and pushes his food around the plate.

            Wow. He must be pretty upset still if he won’t talk about work.

            Of course, he has good reason. We all do.

            Lily hesitates, then tries again. “Any interesting cases?”

            Dad shrugs. “Once you get to be Minister of the Department, it’s less about cases and more about budgetary requests. James—have you had any luck with the wand specialist?”

            Lily looks uncertain of herself, which is rare. She clears her throat and keeps eating.

            She looks better than the last time I saw her. She showed up on my doorstep a few weeks before her latest stint in rehab, bones trying to stick through her skin, hair dirty, expensive clothes soiled. I didn’t answer the door. I closed the curtains and went to bed. She’s put on some weight, and she looks beautiful again. Lily’s always been beautiful. She has Mum’s red hair, and Dad’s green eyes, and she has pale skin.

            People never believe we’re brother and sister.

            “Some,” James says. “I…was able to transfigure a rabbit into a sofa.”

            He glances at me, eyes narrowed. He expects me to make a cutting remark. Albus, the bitter middle child, crowing over his disabled hero elder brother learning to cast with his non-dominant wand hand. I don’t need to comment, however. I eat my roasted potatoes and stay disengaged.

            After years of rising to the bait, I’ve learned that my siblings—and my father—expect me to be petty. That allows them to feel superior or aggrieved, and I take much more satisfaction in thwarting them.

            Most of the time. Not always.

            “That’s good,” Dad says.

            “Excellent, James,” Mum adds.

            I can see that James wants to say it’s not good at all. That it’s a terrible embarrassment for the oldest son of Harry Potter to be struggling with a simple transfiguration spell. But James just nods, a tic pulsing in his jaw.

            Dad turns his attention towards me. Please, let it be something innocuous. “And you, Al? What’s new in your life?”

            I shake my head. “Nothing.”

            Dad looks at me the way he always does. Disappointed.

            Dad is…well, he’s Dad. He’s always been this way, and he’ll never change. When I was younger, I thought that maybe we’d have a different kind of relationship. There were even a few times when it seemed like he was going to really make the effort. Merlin knows I tried. But it’s never worked out.

            I know that people look at him and they see the saviour of the magical world. They see the famous Harry Potter. I just see my father. Greying hair pulled back in a ponytail to show off his scar, age lines on his brown skin, going soft around the middle from office work. I see the man who told me he wished I wasn’t his son, who asked me why I always had to embarrass him, who missed nearly every birthday because something more important at the Ministry came up.

            Scorpius was wrong—I do remember everything, but it’s not always a blessing. I remember everything, and I forgive very little.

            “Surely there’s something new,” Mum prompts.

            Stubbornly, I shake my head. “I work, I go home. I see my friends, I read. That’s about the extent of it.”

            “Well, how are your friends?”

            “Fine.”

            “What’s Hugo up to? Heading off on another trip?”

            “None that I’ve heard of.”

            “What about Scorpius?”

            I remember that at this moment, he’s probably proposing to Rose. I get a sudden, vicious wave of doubt. Then I shove it deep, deep down. “Oh, same old, same old. Best at his job in the department.” I glance at Dad. “But no one seems willing to give him a chance.”

            Dad studiously avoids my gaze.

            I look at Mum with a smile. “What about you? What’s the inside word on—Quidditch, is it? Is that the game you like?”

            Mum smirks at me. I’m hopeless at sports. I honestly do not give a fuck, despite being the product of two athletic parents. Mum says, “Well—between just us here at the table, they’re talking about trading Chester Barnes.”

            Mum goes off on Quidditch, which gives me the opportunity to check out.

            I can’t help but see it in my mind. Scorpius on one knee in the living room. Rose with her face in papers from work, obviously. Lowering them when she realizes what he’s doing. I know she’s going to say no, of course she is. Except in my mind’s eye, she says yes. She smiles, a wide, happy smile the likes of which we rarely see from her. I see him smile, with relief and joy. I see them happy.

            If he’s happy, then I’m happy. That’s how it’s always been. That’s just reality. Make the best of a bad situation.

            Lily’s jittering. I watch her carefully. She’s bouncing her leg under the table, staring off into space.

            She catches me looking and scowls. Like I’ve done something wrong. ‘What?’ she mouths. I arch a brow. Like she doesn’t bloody know. She’s got some nerve, pretending like everything’s fine and dandy, her being in this house.

            “I’ve been thinking,” James says suddenly.

            We all look at him.

            James swallows, then says to Dad, “The speech. If that’s—still a thing you want me to do. I’ll do it.”

            After a moment, Dad smiles. Really smiles. “Really?”

            “Yeah. Public speaking isn’t exactly my forté, but—it would mean a lot to me. To do that for you.”

            Lily raises her eyes to the ceiling, looking annoyed. Dad just looks happy. “I appreciate that, James. I can pass that on.” James nods, and goes back to his food. Dad watches him, affectionate.

            I look around the table. No one else looks confused. If anyone ever wonders why I squirrel knowledge away, maybe it has something to do with being perpetually out of the loop in this household.

            I’m tempted to not ask. Maybe it’s nothing, none of my business at all. But I hear plenty about how I don’t engage at family dinners. I should ask. It might be perfectly harmless.

            “Speech for what?” I pipe up.

            Oh no. Not again.

            Everyone sort of freezes a moment. Lily and James both look at me, but what makes my stomach sink is the way Mum and Dad look at one another. They’re having a silent conversation, only it’s happened so many times before that I can recite it from heart.

            Mum: _You said you were going to tell him_.

            Dad: _I forgot/hadn’t gotten to it yet/didn’t feel like it/just don’t like our middle child as much as the other two._

Mum: _Unbelievable, I cannot believe you did this again. You’d better tell him now, or so help me, Harry_.

            Dad: _Yes, Ginny. Sorry, Ginny_.

            Dad takes a deep breath, then turns to me, without actually looking in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Al, I thought I’d mentioned it to you.” Like hell. Dad says, trying to sound as if it’s unimportant, “They want to make a bit of a fuss this year for my 50th. Have a public…celebration, I suppose. Bit embarrassing. As if Harry Potter Day isn’t embarrassing enough.”

            “They’ve asked me to give a speech,” James says. I glance at him, seeing a flicker of the old smugness in him.

            Dad cringes, then says to me, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

            “What sort of celebration?” I ask.

            “Oh, they…want to have a bit of a celebration the night before, then…the next day, they’re going to dedicate a park in London.”

            “There’ll be a statue,” Lily says.

            I look around the table. My siblings look like they both pity me and also enjoy this latest jab. Mum is watching me, unblinking, waiting for my reaction, waiting for the moment when she can apologize. Dad’s still not quite meeting my eyes.

            “A statue,” I echo, trying to sound impressed. “Who else will be speaking?”

            “Just a few people.”

            Probably everyone. The Minister, clearly. Any surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix. My aunt and uncle. My grandfather. My brother. Likely my mum. All standing up in front of everyone, talking about what a great man my father is.

            I nod, pressing my lips together.

            Mum breaks, leaning forward. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I thought you knew—we didn’t think you’d have any interest, getting up in front of a crowd—”

            I give her a tight smile. “Too right. Well! That sounds like quite the event. You must be proud.”

            Dad frowns. “Not partic—I mean, it’s an honour, of course.”

            A silence falls over the table. Mum is shaking her head slightly, glaring at Dad. I really want this moment to just be over, so I can add it to the pile of shitty things my father has done to me over the years.

            “So Lily,” I say. “How have you been staying busy?”

            I have no interest in my sister’s lies, but I also know that Lily will never miss an opportunity to talk about herself. She hesitates, wanting to see me degraded some more, but I know her too well. “I’ve been designing a lot,” Lily says, straightening up. She’s directing her answer at Mum and Dad, however. “I’ve had some new ideas for some very lovely robes.”

            “That’s wonderful, Lily,” Mum says.

            I feel Dad looking at me. I meet his gaze. I see the same things there I always do. Helplessness and regret. Like he sees me and doesn’t have any idea who I am or how I got this way.

            I look away.

 

“Classic.”

            I don’t give Lily the satisfaction of looking at her as I leave the loo. “You and our parents have an installment plan to pay back all the money you’ve stolen from them?”

            That shuts her up. I find Lily grating at the best of times, but this last year—she crossed a few too many lines. Maybe Mum and Dad want to give it all another go; I do not.

            Mum meets me at the door to the dining room. “Listen, Al—”

            I shrug, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Dinner was lovely, Mum. Give my compliments to whoever made it.”

            She pulls a face. “What gave it away?”

            “Mum. You can’t boil cabbage. I know you didn’t make me tofu.”

            When I try to pull away, Mum catches my sleeve. I can see that she wants to apologize. But she also knows that a person can only apologize for the same mistakes so many times over the years before it’s only empty words. Mum smiles, guilty, and says, “Get home safe. Have some fun this weekend, will you? Don’t just stay home reading.”

            I love my mother, but she doesn’t know much about me. “I’ll do my best. Bye, Mum.”

            She lets me go, and I walk down the hall.

            Oh, for fuck’s sake. Dad is lurking by the front door, patting his hands together. This is why I only submit to one of these dinners every other month. The script for these things are written in stone, and my patience isn’t infinite.

            I ignore him, going to my shoes. Dad hesitates, then says, “Listen, Al—”

            “It’s fine,” I reply, crouching to tie my laces.

            “I kept meaning to tell you—I’ve just been busy—”

            “It’s fine, Dad.”

            “No—I should have said something sooner. I’m sorry.”

            “Okay.”

            I stand up, reaching for the door handle. Except Dad takes my shoulder, turning me to look at him. I don’t see myself in my father, the way I imagine some sons must. Dad’s skin is a deeper brown than mine, his nose not nearly as beaky, his beard full and distinguished looking. The only thing we ever had in common was our eyes, and I changed the colour to brown when I was eighteen and never bothered changing them back.

            “If you’re upset, I’d rather you just say it. I’d rather you tell me what you’re thinking, so I can apologize or make it right.”

            Touching. “The only thing I’d appreciate you apologizing for is lying.”

            Dad drops his hand with a grimace. “I wasn’t lying—”

            “You didn’t forget to tell me. You thought that if you just waited long enough, the information would make its way back to me and I’d get the hint. It’s very, very English of you.”

            “I knew you wouldn’t want to be involved—”

            “No, _you_ don’t want me to be involved. This has nothing to do with anything I want, it’s about you, just like everything is. You don’t want me to get up and give a speech about you, because unlike everyone else, I would actually say what I really thought of you. I’d say you were a great man. I’d also say that great men are overrated.”

            Dad takes a breath, trying not to get frustrated. “I never claimed to be a great man.”

            “No, you just love it when everyone else says it.”

            “I’m not—Al, I’m trying to apologize. Would you please just let me apologize?”

            Snorting, I say, “Dad, that’s the problem with apologies. You think that just because you say you’re sorry, that clears the field until the next time you do the exact same thing. And you’ll apologize then too, and feel good about yourself until you do it again. We’ve been playing this game far too long, and frankly, it bores me. It’s beneath me.”

            I reach for the door again, and Dad says, “I want you there, Al—it would be important to me if you were there—”

            I’m losing my patience. “I haven’t wanted to be called Al since I was eleven years old. You’re the one who gave me this fucking albatross of a name; the least you can do is use it.”

            I open the door and walk out it before I get more irritated. If I get upset, I get mean, and then everyone blames me. Well, I’m sick of it. I’m so sick of being the bloody black sheep all the time.

            James is leaning against the fence at the front of the yard. He’s smoking a cigarette, and it looks unnatural in his hand, though he’s smoked on and off for years. I grit my teeth, walking down the lane. I just have to get to the end, past the barrier, then I can apparate.

            When I get closer, James doesn’t say anything. He waits until I’ve passed him before speaking. “Can’t you give him a break?”

            Lolling my head back, I turn around. “Were you at the same meal I was? Did you hear the same conversation?”

            “He knew you wouldn’t want to be part of it, that you’d just take the piss. Can you blame him?”

            “Yeah, you’re right, James. Dad’s perfect. He’s never made a mistake in his life.”

            I keep walking, and James says, “You know, at some point, you’ll have to stop pretending like your childhood was that fucking terrible. You’ll have to actually take responsibility for yourself, instead of blaming it all on him.”

            I start to laugh, the air a little sweeter once I pass the anti-apparition spell. “It must be terrifying, isn’t it.”

            “What are you on about?”

            “That little voice in the back of your head. The one that told you to do everything he ever said. The voice that told you that you could live up to the expectations of the great Harry Potter. I bet, for the first time in your life, that voice is gone. And you realize what I’ve known for thirteen years: there was never any pleasing him.”

            James scowls, getting to his feet. “He’s a good dad, a great dad, you’re just—”

            I raise my middle finger with a smirk and disapparate.

 

I come out behind some brush in my backyard. I yawn. It’s been a long day, and even though it’s only just gotten dark, I don’t think I can go out again.

            That’s fine. My little brick house sits before me, welcoming, mine, my favourite place.

            Bedford was a calculated choice on my part. When I turned seventeen, I came into a little bit of money. Not a great deal. My parents had divided the last of my grandparents’ savings into three, for each of us when we came of age. James bought a motorcycle, which pleased Dad to no end. Lily’s disappeared into drugs in a few weeks.

            Meanwhile, I went to Mr. Malfoy and had him put it in a sensible savings account.

            I spent the next few years putting my money away, building towards a down payment on a house as I lived in cheap flats. I ended up on a brief contract collating data for the Ministry’s demographics section, and I was able to combine that with Scorpius’ knowledge of English housing. I settled on Bedford because it was a sizeable city, relatively close to London, the housing market wasn’t outrageous, the homes were beautiful, and in 1689 a mob of Muggles managed to kill three witch sisters, an anomaly in the Muggle witch hunts (most magic folk would just disapparate off the stake). Three hundred years later, witches and wizards are too superstitious to live in Bedford.

            Which is to say, I am officially the only wizard to live in a city of nearly 175,000 people.

            I walk across the lawn, not worrying about neighbours. There are walls high enough to block the outside world from my property, and big hedges out front that protect the house from onlookers. The house is at the end of a lane, a small tangle of forest on the other side. The only other people in the neighbourhood are families and the elderly. No one has much interest in a solitary man who only ever walks down the street to buy a fizzy drink from the store.

            I put my hand to the wood frame around the door. It’s spelled to open for me, and no one else. This is my sanctuary. The door opens, the lights automatically turning on inside.

            Zamora is waiting for me, flat face upturned. She lets out a reproachful, relieved mew.

            I crouch down, picking her up into my arms. Burying my face against her thick, fluffy grey fur, I murmur, “I missed you too, my beautiful, perfect girl.” She yowls, butting her head up under my chin. I push the door closed with my foot, petting Zamora’s back as she burrows against me. “Yes, I missed you. It was the longest day without my perfect girl.”

            I kick off my shoes, and walk through the kitchen, Zamora purring like a small motor in my arms. Being between these walls, I feel more myself. I don’t feel so defensive. This is my dominion.

            Zamora is wiggling, trying to get closer to me. She is the most perfect cat in the world, but not very cat-like in that she is quite needy and requires many cuddles. I don’t even pretend to be put out. I love it. She was the best birthday present I ever received.

            I walk into the living room. I leave it every day the way I want it to be when I come home. My favourite blanket is pulled back on the sofa. I have three books to choose from on the table. The lamps are lit, and the room smells like sandalwood.

            Zamora puts her face up against mine and wails. Petting her, I say, “Oh, I know. I know, my girl. Just let me change my clothes and I’ll feed you. How about some nice fish? I have a tin of that hidden away for special occasions. I know you’d like that.”

            She snorts, which I take as an affirmation.

            I walk through the living room, to the hallway at the front of the house. I’m going to put on pajamas, even though it’s not even eight o’clock. Zamora and I will curl up together on the sofa, and I’ll read with her soft, warm weight on me. Tomorrow I’ll sleep late, and I’ll go out, and I will have a very good weekend.

            There’s a knock at the door.

            I turn, staring dead eyed down the hall. I don’t know who would show up at my house on a Friday night. Oh no—my father. He’s got it in his head that he wants to keep fighting things out. Typical Gryffindor stubbornness.

            Well, I don’t feel like it. This is my house, and I get to say who does and doesn’t come in. Of course, the lights are on, so I’m obviously home.

            I’ll tell him to fuck off, then get back to my night in. I think I’ll listen to the Joni Mitchell vinyl I found the other day. Taking a breath through my nose, I walk to the door, and open it, holding Zamora with one hand.

            Scorpius stands on the other side. He has a bottle of something clenched in his right hand. He’s changed, into that jumper Rose gave him for Christmas, the red one that’s too harsh for his colouring. Scorpius looks dazed and lost.

            “She broke up with me.”

            I stare at him.   

            And, a rarity for me, I cannot think of a single thing to say.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up when Zamora attempts to smother me.

            Getting a mouthful of fur, I push her off my face. I feel fur tickling my throat. Hacking, I struggle until I manage to sit up. I pluck some hairs out of my mouth. I frown and ask her, “Was that strictly necessary?”

            She sits on the bed, looking at me sadly. “ _Mrr_.”

            I let out a deep yawn, scratching the scruff on my face. My mouth tastes like red wine and sleep and fur. It’s disgusting.

            Last night comes back to me, and I look at the bedroom door. There’s daylight, sun streaming into my room, but the house is quiet. For a moment, I do nothing at all. I sit here, feeling uncertain. It would be easier, just to stay in bed.

            I’m an adult, though, so hiding in my room isn’t really an option. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I get to my feet. I rub at my arms, padding over the wood floor, and slip out the door.

            Once I’m in the hallway, I hear snoring. It’s rough and obnoxious. At least I know he didn’t choke on his tongue in the night. I hesitantly go to the doorway of the sitting room, and peek around the side.

            Scorpius is splayed over the sofa. His limbs all go in different directions. He’s still in his jumper, but he shucked his trousers at some point, which means his centaur patterned briefs are quite visible. I quickly lift my eyes to the ceiling. Clearing my throat, I avoid looking at Scorpius, and make my way to the middle of the room.      

            One of the bottles has reappeared on the table. He got quite drunk last night, to the point that I had to put an end to it. I forced him to lie down, then put the bottles and glasses in the sink. I was a bit tipsy, but I’m more accustomed to drinking than Scorpius is. I don’t have so much as a hangover. But he clearly got up and drank more after I went to bed.

            Chewing my lip, I look him over. Silly bastard. He’s lying there with his mouth wide open, snoring so loudly it’s a wonder he doesn’t wake himself.

            He was so heartbroken last night. He didn’t see it coming. I didn’t either. I thought she’d tell him no, but I never thought she’d actually break things off. What fool would dump this man?

            “She got cross with me when I proposed,” Scorpius told me. We were sitting on the sofa, him still looking staggered, me on the other end with my hands clenched, no idea of what to do. He hadn’t opened the bottle yet, just held it in both hands. I think he might have forgotten it was there, at least for the time being. “Got up and walked away from me, asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. Then she told me she didn’t think we should be together anymore. That she loved me, but we weren’t going in the same direction. She didn’t really want to talk about it anymore than that.” Scorpius looked down at the bottle, surprised. “We should probably get pissed.”

            He looks completely clueless right now. I don’t mean it in a cruel way. Just that right now, he’s asleep, he doesn’t have to think about having his heart broken. He could be dreaming of winged rabbits, for all I know.       

            Scorpius lets out a noise from the back of his nasal passages that sounds positively damaging. Enough of that. I step forward, reaching down. Gently, gently, I slip my hands over the sides of his face. Pushing his mouth closed with my thumb, I carefully turn his head to the side.

            He stops his snoring. Brow furrowed, I lift a hand, and push some of his curls back from his forehead. He always keeps it so neat.

            I don’t want to see him hurt. I am so angry for him. I’m frightened for him.

            Zamora brushes against my ankle, and I quickly move back from Scorpius. Yes, petting my best friend like I would my cat. There’s a normal thing to do. I pull the blankets over his bare legs, covering up the briefs that say ‘Centaur of Attention.’ Rose will have gotten him those. She gets us all stupid underpants for Christmas.

            I pick up the bottle, doing my best to stay silent, and tiptoe to the kitchen. Zamora follows after me, being a very good girl and staying quiet as well. I’m glad she didn’t decide to sleep on Scorpius’ face. As drunk as he was when he fell asleep, she might have killed him.

            I run the bottle under the tap. It will go in the recycling. While the water runs, I look out the window to the back yard. I catch sight of my reflection.

            It’s a normal face, really. My friends, my siblings, they all got the looks. Me, I have a long face, and bags under my eyes. Thick eyebrows, a thin upper lip that would look better if I grew out a mustache, but then I would run the risk of looking more like my father, and we can’t have that. My nose is—well, I’d wager my nose and the colour of my skin is what has inbred racists on the street screaming, “Paki!” at me whenever I venture out into the world. I reach up, rubbing my thumb over the hooked end of my too prominent nose. It’s a beak, really.

            I stop looking at myself. It’s too depressing.

            For the second time in a day, someone knocks on the door. This time I really don’t know who it could be. It’s Saturday, so it’s not the post. And whoever just knocked did it loudly, authoritatively. A beat passes where I panic, thinking it’s the aurors finally catching onto my side business.

            Don’t be stupid, Albus. Get over there.

            I walk to the front door, Zamora bouncing along at my side. I feel better having her there. My furry little familiar. The knock raps again, and I say, “Yes, _coming_.” I open the door wide, remembering only in that moment I’m still in my pajamas, and find myself looking up at Scorpius’ father. “Mr. Malfoy?”

            He looks at me with barely veiled impatience. “Is Scorpius here?”

            Now I’m _very_ aware of being in my pajamas. He’s wearing robes that probably cost as much as the down payment on my house. His hair is perfect, he has handfuls of rings on, he looks fully awake and intimidating. The weight of his emerald wedding ring could probably bludgeon a mugger.

            “Yes—“

            Mr. Malfoy steps inside and I draw out of his way. He strides past me, down the hall towards the bedroom.

            I unstick myself, shutting the door and saying, “That’s my room, Mr. Malfoy—no, that’s my bedroom—”

            He pushes the door open, leaning inside and looking from side to side. When he turns around, he frowns at me in consternation.

            Weakly, I repeat, “That’s my bedroom.”

            Mr. Malfoy rolls his eyes, and gives me a knowing look that makes me flush. He walks past me again, robes swirling. “Scorpius?” he calls, sweeping around the corner.

            I clear my throat, my face quite warm. I follow him into the sitting room.

            Mr. Malfoy stands over Scorpius, the back of his hand to his mouth, brow crinkled in revulsion. “Merlin’s saggy tits,” he murmurs. “It smells like Italian wine in here. If you were going to liquor up my son, Albus, could you not have done it with something quality and French?”

            I wave my hands. “Oh no, he did this to himself.”

            Dropping his hand, Mr. Malfoy says, “I suppose he did.” He leans down, raising his voice. “Scorpius! Scorpius, can you hear me?” I only hear a mumble from the other side of the sofa. “Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, this is your father. Open your eyes.”

            There’s another grumble, then a sleepy, “Dad?”

            “Yes. Did Rose break up with you?”

            I hear a sad little squall, then the blankets rearrange themselves, throwing themselves over Scorpius’ head. Mr. Malfoy does not react, just presses his lips together. “How did you know?” I ask.

            “Everything he owned was sitting in my foyer this morning. Everything he ever gave her as well.”

            “She vanished all his things to your house?”

            “She did. Scorpius! Did you agree to leave the flat?” There’s no answer. Mr. Malfoy narrows his eyes. “Scorpius. Did you agree to move out of the flat?”

            There’s a bit of a burble.

            “That sounded like a no to me.” Mr. Malfoy straightens, and nods towards the kitchen. “Albus. Join me a moment, won’t you?”

            I follow him into the kitchen, at his mercy. Whenever Mr. Malfoy is in a room, he immediately takes charge. It goes beyond feeling entitled. He makes decisions, but he thinks about them first. That and it’s a different kind of authority from the kind my father displays. Mr. Malfoy doesn’t care if you like him or not. I respect that.

            He glances around the kitchen. Picking up one of the bottles off the counter, Mr. Malfoy casts me a look. Italian, yes. I shrug, not quite sure what a tannin is, but well aware from years of lectures that they can be overbearing in Italian wines.

            Mr. Malfoy sets down the empty bottle with a sigh, then turns to me. “What happened?”

            “He showed up here last night. Said he’d proposed to Rose—again—and that she wasn’t having it. Told him their lives weren’t going the same direction—” I see anger flare in his eyes, though his face stays blank, and I rush onwards. “And that was pretty much it. I mean, he tried to talk her out of it, but she was so firm about it that even he knows she’s not changing her mind.”

            Mr. Malfoy mulls over what I’ve said, sucking on his cheeks. Then he steps forward, holding up a hand in my direction, palm facing me.

            I look between his hand and his face, confused. Mr. Malfoy explains, “I’ve seen Muggles do this. I’m doing it correctly, aren’t I?”

            “Oh! Um—” I reach up, giving him a gentle high five.

            Once I do, Mr. Malfoy nods, and says with some satisfaction, “Our long nightmare is over, Albus. I’ll take him back to the Manor now. Tomorrow, if Rose isn’t out of that flat, I’ll call the authorities.”

            “You—gave it to Scorpius as a gift.”

            “Scorpius might not be entirely aware that I father claused it. If he vacates the premises, the property reverts to me. He’s a good boy, but he believes the best in people. I, however, will not have that woman living on my property after she wasted seven years of my son’s life. Actually, I think that after I get him settled at the Manor, I’ll tell her myself. Do you wish to accompany me?”

            “Uh—no. But you have fun.”

            “It’s not a matter of fun, Albus.” Mr. Malfoy pauses, then concedes, “Entirely.” He walks past me, back into the sitting room. “Scorpius! We’re going home.”

            Scorpius pops his head up from the blanket. “Rose is taking me back?”

            “To the Manor. Are you still drunk? You are.”

            Squinting, Scorpius says, “Dad? When did you get here?”

            Exhaling, Mr. Malfoy throws back the covers. He blinks at Scorpius’ underpants, and glances sideways at me. “Albus, be kind and fetch me his trousers, would you?”

            While he rouses Scorpius, I search the room. What on earth did he do with them? I find them shoved under the radiator, heaven only knows why. By the time I have the rumpled bundle in my hands, Mr. Malfoy has Scorpius on his feet, Scorpius’ arm braced over his shoulder.

            “Light a fire, please.”

            “Uh…he’ll vomit all over you if you Floo him out of here.”

            “He’ll do that whether I use the Floo or apparate him, and at least I can take him through the fireplace in his bedroom. A fire, Albus.”

            “Yes sir. Here’s these.” I put the old jeans in his free hand.

            Mr. Malfoy gazes at them, then tosses them on the sofa. “I changed my mind. Burn them, please.”

            “I—my wand is just in the bedroom—”

            Mr. Malfoy has his out in a second. “ _Incendio_.” A jet of flame hits the fireplace. “Could you throw in the Floo powder or would that be too much?” I frown. It’s the arse crack of day on a weekend, and he’s in my house. Mr. Malfoy takes a look at me and adds, “Please.”

            I’m uncapping the Floo powder when Scorpius says, “Albus?”

            “Yeah, mate?”

            “Should have married you,” he slurs. “I would have been happier.”

            Well. I certainly needed that little extra kick in the teeth. Mr. Malfoy says, “He’s still out of sorts, Albus—”

            “Yes, I’m _quite_ aware of that,” I snap. I toss a handful of powder in the fireplace, and it flares green. “Don’t give him that pink hangover potion. It has fish in it; he’ll just sick it up.”

            “Noted.” Mr. Malfoy drags Scorpius forward. “Say goodbye, Scorpius.”

            “Bye,” Scorpius mumbles.

            Mr. Malfoy gets them both in the fireplace, then says loudly, “Malfoy Manor, my son’s bedroom.” The fire flares in a whirl, then they’re gone.

            I’m left alone. I feel it quite acutely.

           

I’m curled up on my favourite chair—overstuffed, massive, covered in teal velvet—when all at once the fireplace goes green again. I sigh in annoyance, looking up from my book.

            Hugo comes skidding out, managing to stay on his feet. Of course he does. Everything Hugo does is effortless. If he wasn’t so likeable, he’d be insufferable.

            “What is this, King’s Cross?” I ask.

            Brushing off his shirt, Hugo smiles. “Let me guess. I’m the second guest you’ve had this month, and it’s just far too much for my favourite misanthrope.”

            “The month’s only started, and you’re the third in two days.”

            “Poor you.” Hugo flips up the tails of his jacket and lounges out on the sofa. He’s cut his red afro a bit shorter than usual. He’s darker than I am, but he has the Weasley hair and freckles. On him it looks extraordinary, and I will admit to some jealousy over the years. “So…”

            “So?”

            “So does Scorpius despise me or what?”

            “Oh, Agnes’ teats, don’t start.”

            “I’m bloody worried, is all! What if he doesn’t want to be mates anymore, now that my sister’s put a stake through his heart?” Pouting, Hugo lays his head on the back of the sofa. “I could lose one of my best friends just because Rose is more interested in perception than happiness.”

            “Did you know she was going to do this?”

            “Not exactly.”

            “Hugo.”

            “I didn’t! I was certainly afraid she might. She’s had her head so far up her arse on this stupid bill. She’s been snappish for months. That’s just Rose, though, isn’t it. She wasn’t being all that kind to him, but she’s never been. He’s such a masochist.”

            “I won’t argue that.”

            “Now that she’s finally finishing on that fucking abomination, she’s been talking about the future. But any time Scorpius would talk about them doing something, she’d just say, ‘we’ll see.’ You’d know all this if you’d been around.”

            “I’m not like you. If I looked at her face, I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut about your budding Death Eater sister.”

            “That’s going a bit far. I mean, not irrationally far, but a bit far. I didn’t think she’d _actually_ go through with it. Scorpius adores her. No one will ever love Rose like Scorpius loves her.”

            “Love doesn’t seem to be a priority for your sister.”

            “I suppose not. We might share that, but in her case, it’s not an orientation. It’s a calculation. I don’t know, Albus. Was he all right? I figured he’d come here instead of the Manor, but I didn’t think he’d want to see me.”

            “He was a disaster,” I say honestly. “He was on the verge of tears when he wasn’t getting raucously drunk. He made me listen to the Cranberries.”

            Hugo cringes. “Rose does love the Cranberries.”

            “I know. He mentioned it. Repeatedly.”

            Sighing, Hugo looks down at Zamora. “Come up?” he says hopefully, patting his lap. Zamora turns without making a sound and walks back to me. “It’s uncanny, how you managed to find your identical twin in cat form.”

            “We’re soul mates.”

            “Will he be staying at the Manor?”

            “I assume as much. His father came and carried him out of here this morning. Rose is about to get evicted, if you care.”

            “She told me Scorpius told her she could keep the flat.” Hugo looks at me and says, “But I don’t imagine Mr. Malfoy would stand for that.”

            “He has some sort of legal loophole where the property’s reverted to him.” I glance at the clock. “Your sister is probably officially on the street by now.”

            “Rose is nothing if not efficient. She’ll have a new place by tomorrow. She always lands on her feet. Well!” Hugo raises an amused brow at me. “He spent the night, eh?”

            “What’s that to do with anything?”

            “Get off it. Scorpius is single! You’re probably raring at the bit.”

            Crossing my arms, I give him a scowl. “Scorpius—our best mate—has been single less then a day, after _your_ sister refused his proposal and kicked him out of his own home. Have some respect.”

            “Please. You said you got him drunk.”

            “I didn’t get him anything! He did it to himself. Stop this nonsense, will you?”

            “Albus, delicacy be damned. Did you make a move on him?”

            “Why would I?!”

            Hugo rolls his eyes. “Because you’ve been in love with him your whole life.”

            Hearing it aloud makes me want to just crinkle in on myself. I smooth the blanket over my knees, avoiding Hugo’s eyes. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m not a fool. Scorpius is straight.”

            Growling, Hugo says, “Scorpius doesn’t know what he is. The only person he’s ever had any interest in is my sister, and if his taste is that bad, you might be next.”

            I snort. “Touching as that might be, he’s literally said the words to me, ‘I don’t like men.’ Difficult to characterize that as equivocal.”

            “As I recall, he’s also said, ‘I don’t like women, only Rose.’ He’s been Rose-sexual so far, but that’s off the table.”

            “You know, you’re in no position to cast aspersions on what he does or doesn’t like. You don’t like anyone at all.”

            Hugo laughs and says, “Scorpius and I are only trying to balance things out, considering you and Tim. Mostly you, though.”

            “I’ll fuck who I please, regardless of any judgment from you.”

            “Oh and you have. Have you ever.”

            I pick up a pillow and toss it at him. Hugo catches it easily, chuckling. “Listen, I don’t want to hear about this. It’s not going to happen, something I’m well aware of, and your attempts, well meaning as they might be, are just poking at old wounds. And leave Scorpius be. For all we know, he might never love again.”

            Hugo spreads his arms. “Come to my side. Water’s fine.”

            “So? Did you just come to harass me about Scorpius, or do you have some other reason for being here?”

            “Mostly that. Also, I haven’t seen your face lately. We haven’t had a chance to go out since I’ve been back.”

            “I was thinking I would tonight. There’s a new place in Brighton.”

            “Yeah, all right. Eight?”

            “We could get food first. Tim coming?”

            “I’ll ask him.” Hugo taps his feet against the ground. He’s not one for sitting still long. My famous adventurer cousin. We can’t keep him in England for more than three months before he’s off cave swimming in Mexico or battling ghouls in Romania. Hugo might only be twenty-one, and an occasional pain in the arse, but he’s also the bravest man I’ve ever met. “I’ll assume Scorpius won’t come.”

            “Probably not. But he’s not one for shutting himself away.” Reluctantly, I say, “We can swing by, see if he’ll join.”

            Hugo nods, starting to rock a bit. I wait, seeing what he wants to say.

            “Seen Granddad lately?”

            “Last week. You?”

            He sort of shrugs and bobbles his head at the same time, blustering, “Oh…”

            “I’m not doing anything this afternoon. We could go see him.”

            “No, I have to see my publisher.”

            “Hugo, if you’re going to lie, at least make the effort. It’s Saturday.”

            He tosses up his hands, frowning guiltily. “I know! I just—I miss Nan.”

            “We all miss her.”

            “It’s only…” Hugo looks down, uncommonly serious. “If he’d leave the house, it would be fine. It would be no problem. But I can’t be in the house without her. The house without her is…it’s too sad for me, Albus. I know that’s no excuse, but I don’t see any reason in lying to you.”

            If it was anyone else in the family, I’d take them to task. But I know the others are thinking it. Hugo’s the only one with the sack to actually say it.

            “I’ll tell him you said hello.”

            Hugo sags, relieved. “I’d appreciate that.”

            Blowing out a breath, I push the blanket aside. “I suppose I should put on trousers if I’m making house calls.”

            “I have five galleons says he’s not wearing any when you get there.”

            I glare at him, and Hugo raises his shoulders. “That’s a sucker’s bet.” I think about it. “Make it two galleons, and you have a deal.”

 

There is no smoke rising from the chimney of the Burrow.

            The first few times I visited after Nan died, I couldn’t tell at first what made the place look so much less lively. I’d take a glance at it, feel unnerved, then go inside. Finally, though, I stood out on the front lawn and watched it for a few minutes. Was the house itself reacting to her absence? It looked like the place had stopped breathing. At last, I realized that it was the chimney. No one had lit the fires since Nan died.

            I walk up to the back door amid the silence. No one has touched the garden. Everything is brown and lifeless. Maybe spring will do something to the place, make things green and brighter.

            Tapping on the back door, I say loudly, “Granddad?”

            I don’t expect him to reply, and he doesn’t. The least I can hope is that he locked the doors—

            No. He did not. Sighing, I step inside.

            The kitchen is better than in January. He wasn’t doing the dishes, and they piled into a hill. I was the one who told him to use the same plate and utensils every time. Things a single man would know, not a man who was married for sixty years. The issue now is dust. A thin layer covers every surface, save his usual seat at the table and a few places he’s touched here and there.

            Everything is so quiet. When I was young, this place nearly overwhelmed me with how alive it was. Filled with people, dashing about, the smell of food in the air. Always some crisis, people fighting, making up.

            And Nan would preside over it all, larger than life. The undisputed ruler. She seemed to have an endless supply of chocolate in her pockets that she’d stuff in your face at the first opportunity. I don’t know if anyone else ever learned to cook because she insisted on doing it all herself. I remember family dinners here, and holidays, and the noise, all the noise.

            Now it’s silent.

            I step up to the sitting room doorway and blow out a breath. Granddad is slumped in his chair, fast asleep. He wears an old jumper with an A on it, and not much else. Just some boxers. His skinny knees are exposed.

            For a moment, I watch him. His mouth hangs open, dentures drooping. His too-long hair brushes his shoulders. I doubt he’s shaved this week. He is the definition of lonely. Mum thought to lecture me a few weeks back about not settling down with someone (as if anyone would have me), and I thought of Granddad like this. It doesn’t matter if you love someone your whole life or not. It finishes like this: you are alone.

            I cross the sitting room, crouching in front of Granddad. He’s breathing, thank Merlin, but not much else. Laying my hand over his, I give it a squeeze. “Granddad?”

            He slowly blinks his eyes open. Then he looks down at me. A smile spreads across his face. “Alb—” His dentures start to fall out. Granddad grabs at them, then gums at me, “Oops-a-daisy.”

            I smile despite myself. My grandfather has always been ridiculous. As he pushes the dentures back in, I bounce on my haunches. “Maybe you should take them out before you have a nap.”

            “Maybe I should.” Granddad squints his green eyes at me. “Hello you. How’s my favourite grandson?”

            “You say that to everyone. You even told Victoire she was your favourite grandson.”

            “One doesn’t like to discriminate.”

            “Have you had a shower today?”          

            Granddad blusters. “Oh, I’ll get around to it—”

            “Did you have one yesterday?” He’s a terrible liar, partly because it takes him awhile to come up with any sort of lie, so I cut him off before he can try. “Come on,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ll sponge bathe you in place if you don’t, and neither of us want that.”

            “I’m fine, Albus—”

            “Have a shower, and I’ll wash that shirt. If I don’t, it could be stained, or it might smell permanently, and Nan would never stand for that. Would she?”

            Granddad looks down at himself. “No,” he says soberly. “She never would.” He starts pushing himself up from his seat. I put a hand beneath his elbow, steadying him. Granddad was never heavy to begin with, but he’s become quite frail. Oh for fuck’s sake. He’s wearing blue boxers with ice cream cones on them, only instead of ice cream it’s unicorn heads, and the text floating around them says ‘UNI-CONES.’ Granddad catches me looking and beams. “Do you like these? Christmas present from Rose.”

            It takes a herculean effort to say, “Fetching.”

 

By the time he returns, I’ve cleaned out the entire bottom floor. I use the same relentless spirit I use on my office. All the dust is shot out into the world, the trash is vanished, everything is put back in its proper place. I also have cheese toasties going for the both of us on the stove top.

            Granddad has found some clean clothes, likely the ones I put in his closet. The rest of my family visits Granddad. They’ve all made the effort. But I’m the only one who’ll come here. They insist on taking him out to dinner, or to their homes, or on an outing. I don’t think it’s that seeing the Burrow hurts too much, or that they want to unstick him, but rather a combination of both.

            They ignore the fact that this is his home. This is where he wants to be.

            He comes up behind me, patting me between my shoulder blades. “You’re always such a good boy. You take such good care of me.”

            “Enough of that. Have a seat, there’ll be food in a moment.”

            Granddad chuckles, sitting at the table. “Like your grandmother—bossy.”

            It might be the only time anyone has ever compared me to Nan. She was always at the center. I’ve always been placed as far from center as possible. “Well, if bossy keeps you from lazing around in your undergarments all day, I suppose I’ll take it.” I float the toasties off the pan and over to the table. They descend onto plates. I’m not the world’s best cook, but I make staples, and well. Another thing you learn as a single man, or risk becoming a Sad BastardTM. Shutting off the stove, I look around for anything else I can do.

            “Come sit.”

            All right. I take the seat kitty corner to him, and push his glass closer. “Have some of that.”

            “What’s in it?”

            “Vitamins.”

            Granddad glances at me, and jokes, “It’s like you’re trying to keep me alive.”

            The joke falls flat. We both know he’d rather be with Nan, but Granddad’s not the kind of man to tell his family, ‘Just let me die.’ Picking up my toastie, I say, “Drink your vitamins, old man.”

            I eat quietly, watching him from the corner of my eye. He shaved and combed his hair. His hair is nearly down to his shoulders. I’ve never seen Granddad with long hair. It suits him, actually. He looks at the toastie, then takes an enormous bite. Like he can’t wait to have it. He’s mostly been eating take away from Broom and Fork, the magical delivery service. I just vanished a pile of their boxes. The only time he has a home cooked meal is when someone else cooks it for him.

            The idea frightens me. Being that age, and not knowing how to do basic things, because I relied on someone else to do them for me.

            “How’s work treating you?”

            “Same as always.”

            “You know, you could leverage your experience into a position at the Ministry quite easily.”

            “Could I?” I say blithely. He tells me the same thing every time I see him.

            “They always need people with a head for numbers and attention to detail. Being a Potter wouldn’t be a deterrent either.” He leans closer with a smile. “Being a Weasley might have its advantages as well.”

            “I’ll think about it, Granddad.”

            “What are the numbers telling you lately?”

            I raise my shoulders, thinking about the trends. “Broken bones are up. There’s a strain of spattergroit going around that’s green. Uptick in gardening related incidents, which means it’s definitely spring. I don’t really crunch the numbers, Granddad, I just collect the information.”

            “You’d go far in government work.”

            “You already have plenty of relations in government work.”

            “One more never hurt.” I realize he’s finished his toastie. Tearing mine in two, I give him half. “Oh, I’m all right—”

            “You haven’t really seen me be bossy yet.” He picks up the piece of sandwich, and I ask, “What have you been up to? Who’ve you been out with?”

            Swallowing his mouthful, Granddad say, “I had dinner with Bill and Fleur last night. I was sorry to have missed dinner at your house, but I’d already made plans.”

            “You were missed, but I suppose we have to share you.”

            “And you? Big plans?”

            “Going out with my mates tonight.”

            He brightens. “That sounds like fun.”

            “Would you like to come?”

            Granddad breaks out laughing. “Picture that. Me out with a group of twenty somethings. People would wonder if I’d been hexed.”

            “You _could_ come. I’d love it. I’d bring bone repair potion, in case you fractured a hip on the dance floor.” He’s still chuckling, and I say, “But seriously—you could come. I think it would be grand.”

            “No, Albus. I’ll leave you to your mates. But thank you for asking.”

            I nod. I think about what I’ll be like when I’m his age. Considering the way I’m going, I’ll still be a single man, just moving slowly, the few people I love long dead, no one to talk to.

            “Granddad—may I ask you a question?”

            “Of course.”

            “I know you’re going to say no, but I want to at least ask, so that you know I’ve thought about it, so you know it’s an option. Would you come live with me?” Granddad nods, smiling wistfully as he picks at his sandwich. I continue, “I have the spare room. Plenty of space. I could do with the company. Zamora would sit in your lap all the time. I’d make you toasties whenever you pleased.”

            Granddad nods along with all I’m saying, then looks at me. “Albus, let me ask you a question. Would you come live with me?”

            I balk. The thought of leaving my home—my things, my routine, my little space I’ve carved out into the world. It’s enough to make me itch. Of course, that’s what he was aiming for. With a smile, I reply, “Understood. I didn’t want you to think you weren’t welcome.”

            “You’re a good boy, Albus.” Granddad folds his arms on the table and tilts his head at me. “I just couldn’t leave. I would have never left when she was alive. To leave now—it would feel like a betrayal of her.”

            “I know. And if the day comes when one of the others tries to push you out of here, you ring me and I’ll take care of them.”

            “I can take care of myself.”

            No you can’t. “You’re too nice. I shoot to kill.”

            Granddad makes a face. “Enough of that.” He sits back, wiping his hands on a napkin. “How’s that Malfoy boy doing?”

            So he hasn’t heard. For some reason, I don’t feel like getting into it right now. “He’s good.”

            “I never thought I’d say this about a Malfoy, but Rose is very lucky.”

            I take a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.”

            “You’ll be lucky too, one day, Albus. Mark my words.”

            I smile, and say, “Marked, Granddad.” I take a glance around this lonely house, and form my own opinion.

 

We arrive at Malfoy Manor at half past seven. Hugo and Tim were late, because Tim is always late. Having expected that, I didn’t bother getting ready until seven.

            Malfoy Manor is one of the few large properties on the Isles that doesn’t have an anti apparition spell over it. That’s thanks to Scorpius, who swears the spell reeks of fish. So we’re able to come out practically on the front steps of the building.

            Tim is the first to bound up to the door, giving it a few hard raps with the back of his knuckles. He turns around, hands in his pockets. When he catches me looking, he kisses the air at me. I look away.

            Tim is part of our social circle by default. Hugo is our best friend, and Tim’s best friend, so we four end up going out at least once or twice a month. Tim is handsome, blonde, and believes in absolutely nothing. The press loves him. He says the right things. He’ll go far, probably because he’ll never take a side.

            The large black doors crack, then one slowly pulls open. We all look down at a tiny figure with bat-like ears, wearing a spotless black dress.

            “Nibbly!” Tim says. “Lovely to see you.”

            The house elf scowls up at him. “The Minister’s son,” she mutters. “What a…pleasant surprise. We’re honoured. So very honoured he’s graced us with his presence.”

            Hugo waves at her. “We’re here as well, Nibbly.”

            “He brings…not pure bloods.” That’s certainly not the name she wants to call us. Nibbly was a wedding present for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy from his mother. “If I die before her, she’s yours,” Mr. Malfoy will threaten Scorpius. Nibbly purses her mouth and says, “What are the Minister’s son and his…friends…doing on my master’s doorstep?”

            “Here to see Scorpius,” Tim says, flashing his perfect smile. Photographers love that smile, but Nibbly couldn’t give a shit. “Take him out, get him out of his head.”

            With some relish, Nibbly says, “Master Scorpius is not seeing visitors tonight.”

            “Oh, if you’d just check—”

            Nibbly closes the door on us, saying, “Good night. Good night to the Minister’s son and his friends.” The door latches, then we all hear the locks click into place.

            Tim turns around. “I’m wearing her down.”

            I snort, already walking away. “Yeah, mate,” Hugo says, following me. “Like that hag in Azerbaijan.”

            “She liked me!” Tim protests as we walk around the side of the house.

            “She liked your supple young flesh.”

            “What do you know about supple young flesh?” I ask, scooping up a stone.

            “Enough to know a hag wants it for stewing, not stroking.”

            “I think being stroked by a hag is somewhere on my list of life achievements,” Tim says.

            Hugo and I both make sounds of disgust. The lights are on in Scorpius’ room, on the second floor. “I don’t know why we’re friends,” Hugo says.

            “I bring colour to your boring life.”

            “My life’s fine. Albus is the boring one.”

            “Piss off,” I say. I pull back my arm and throw the stone. It skips off the window. Chewing my lip, I wait to see what happens. Truth is, I’d rather go out without Scorpius tonight. I want to dance and get fucked by a stranger. I don’t want to sit back, trapped by his sadness. Having to pretend like I sympathize. Pretending like I’m not thrilled, and guilty for being pleased by his misfortune.

            I’m not happy that he’s unhappy. It would have been easier if he _had_ married Rose. It’s what I expected.

            We all turn at the dreaded shriek. “Shit,” Tim says, drawing his wand.

            A white peacock comes speeding out from the bushes. “Don’t use your wand!” Hugo says. “You remember what his father did last time.”

            Another peacock follows the first. They might be beautiful birds, but they’re fucking monsters. They scream and peck at ankles and chase you across the grounds if you’re not fast enough. To hell with Mr. Malfoy, I’m taking out my wand.

            The first flares its feathers at Tim, hissing. “Come at me, you—” The bird darts at him, and Tim yelps, stumbling back.

            “Why are you tormenting the peacocks?” a voice says from above. I look up. Scorpius is hanging out the window in a t-shirt, hair tousled, frowning at us.

            “Scorpius! Just the fellow we were hoping to—” The peacock comes at Tim again, and he forgets what he’s saying.

            Hugo waves up at Scorpius hopefully. “Hey mate. Remember me? Your friend, who you won’t stop talking to?”

            “Why would I stop talking to you?”

            Hugo thinks about it, then says, “Rose?”

            Scorpius rolls his eyes. “Don’t be preposterous. Tim, I’d advise against hexing that peacock. My father meant it when he said he’d curse anyone who touched them.”

            “I’m running out of options!” Tim says, running in circles with the peacock.

            Scorpius looks to me for an explanation. I nod back over my shoulder. “Going down to Brighton to get some drinks. You want to come?”

            He pulls a face, but Hugo says, “Come on, Scorpius. Night out with the lads. That’s what one does after a breakup. Hypothetically. So I’ve heard.”

            “I don’t know—” He looks to me again.

            “You don’t have to,” I say. “Just didn’t want you to feel excluded.”

            “Yes, you have to bloody come,” Hugo says. “Are you just going to stay in that house feeling sorry for yourself?”

            “I’d considered it, Hugo, yes.”

            Hugo clasps his hands together like a pauper, making his eyes round and pleading. “Come out. Please, Scorpius? Please?”

            Scorpius sighs. He looks out at the night, then says, “Fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”

            “What do I do about this?” Tim shouts. The peacock has cornered him against a tree.

            “I don’t know, Tim, the things scare the shit out of me.” Scorpius gives me a wink, then slips back inside.

            By the time we leave the Manor, we all have bird bites.

 

We get dinner first, and Scorpius is uncommonly quiet. Hugo is always the one to carry a conversation, and Tim will chip in, and I’m predictably antisocial, but Scorpius will usually keep up, his perpetually optimistic self. Tonight, he just eats his food and smiles wanly, saying a word here and there if someone asks him a direct question.

            I’m not much help. I’ve never had to deal with a friend going through a breakup before. The closest has been the other times Scorpius proposed. It was a very different prospect, though, because I knew it would all work out in the end. The other times, he would rage about how stupid he’d been, but there would be that glimmer of hope.

            But she’s his world, she was his future, and now it’s all disappeared. What do I say to that?

            The club is like any other we’ve been to. Everyone looks the same, the music is the same music, the drinks are too expensive. We do like we always do, and find ourselves a table. We’ll spend the first bit of the night together, then Tim will flutter off to find a girl, and I’ll find a bloke, and Hugo and Scorpius will shake their heads at the both of us.

            At least, that’s how it’s gone in the past.

            The first round of drinks arrives, and Tim raises his glass. “To Scorpius! Single like the rest of us at last!” Scorpius gamely lifts his glass, but he looks miserable. I don’t bother lifting my drink, I just sip at it. Hugo frowns at Tim. “What’s that look for, Hugo?”

            “You’re a real sensitive soul,” Hugo replies.

            “Oh—come on, now. We could sit here and be all dour about it, but what’s that going to accomplish?”

            He looks around at us, trying to find someone to agree, but he’s in the wrong crowd for that. “You’ve the emotional capacity of a niffler,” Hugo says.

            “Listen, I’m not going to pretend that it’s the end of the world, because it’s not. Scorpius, Rose treated you like trash, and now she’s out of the picture. I say bloody good riddance.”

            “Oi!”

            “Yes, she’s your sister, but she’s a piece of work. You deserve better, Scorpius. I don’t think anyone here would deny that.”

            “Read the room, Tim.”

            “What happened to, ‘better hold onto that one?’” I ask Tim. “’She’s going straight to the top.’ Isn’t that what you said about Rose last week?”

            “She hadn’t broken up with Scorpius last week.”

            Scorpius says, “I don’t think her breaking up with me will stop her reaching the top.” He’s trying to make a joke, but it comes out mostly sad.

            “How about we discuss anything other than my sister?” Hugo suggests.

            “I’m for it,” I say quickly.

            Tim folds his arms on the table, looking directly at Scorpius. “Mate, I want you to know—people have already been asking me if I plan to make a move on Rose. I want you to know, I’d never. Not just because she’s insufferable, but because you’re my friend.”

            Hugo slams his drink down and pushes himself up. “May I speak with you?” he says, already taking Tim by the shoulder.

            “I’m only being honest!”

            “Let’s have a grown up discussion, you and I.” Tim huffs, grabbing his drink, and lets Hugo drag him away.

            Cringing, I glance at Scorpius. Even in this terrible lighting, I can see he’s gone even paler than usual. I try to think of what to say, but Scorpius stops me before I can. Staring forward, he says quietly, “He _is_ the Minister’s son.”

            I scoff. “He’s useless as tits on a schnauzer.”

            “Those aren’t useless at all. A mother has to suckle her young.”

            “Listen—Rose has some shit taste, but not as shit as _Tim_.”

            “I don’t know,” Scorpius says quietly. “I thought I knew her. But I don’t think I knew her at all.” Oh dear. I’m not meant for this kind of talk. Scorpius needs someone with emotional depth, and I’m shallow as a pond. “I shouldn’t have come out tonight.”

            “It’s fine if you want to go. I knew you wouldn’t really want to be here.”

            Scorpius tucks back his hair and looks at me. “I don’t remember much about last night. How pathetic was I, really?”

            When he finally started to cry, Scorpius told me, “She’s the only person I’ll ever love, Albus. The only one.” He’d put his head in his hands and wept like I’d never seen before.

            “Not pathetic at all,” I lie.

            Scorpius smiles faintly. “You’re a good friend. You know, I think I’ll take off before Tim comes back and keeps talking.”

            I nod, scooting out of the booth so he can get out. “You’re going to stay with your dad for now?”

            “A few days at least. Until I figure out what’s going on.”

            “I always have that spare room.”

            Scorpius puts his arms around me. I pat his back, looking away. “You’re too good to me,” Scorpius says. “Make up some lie for Hugo and Tim, will you?”

            “Will do. I’ll see you for lunch on Monday.”

            Scorpius nods, already walking away.

            I take a deep breath, then exhale. His leaving is a relief. Him being around Tim right now is a nightmare. The man has as much sensitivity as slate. Scorpius doesn’t need that nonsense.

            I look across the room, trying to find my other friends. They’re against a wall. Tim looks unimpressed. Hugo is clearly giving him a talking to. Good. Better he do it than me.

            The song changes, and I look up. The Prodigy. Old songs. Sometimes they’re the better songs.

            With no one to look after but myself, I go to dance.

            Because that’s what you should do when you know you’ll never get what you want. Just dance.

 

The man beneath me has done next to nothing this whole time, but that’s fine. I don’t need him to do anything, not really. I ride him into the mattress, unrelenting, legs on either side of him as I take his cock.

            I just can’t look at him. He’s making the stupidest faces.

            I grind down on him with a ferocious rhythm, chasing that elusive feeling. It’s a cousin of when I lose control. Like when I was younger and got so angry that things would explode. This is close, but better. This ends with me bursting within, a kind of liquid happiness melting my insides. I don’t mean his semen, incidentally. Play safe or not at all. I don’t know where these men have bloody been.

            He gasps, and I glance down at him. Fuck me sideways, he looks preposterous, face all crinkled up, mouth drooping open. I look up resolutely, trying to ignore him so I can take care of my own orgasm.

            “I’m gonna come,” he wheezes. Just shut up, I’m almost there. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna _come_ —I’m gonna _come_ —”

            “Yes, that’s the point,” I snap. I speed up, because I suspect he’ll go limp as empty socks once he finishes. I brace my hands on his belly and force myself the rest of the way.

            Yes— _yes_ —

            He’s wailing like a banshee, which takes a lot of the happy edge off the moment. I spurt, but it doesn’t feel as good as it would have if this fucking American idiot wasn’t doing his best impersonation of a howler monkey—

            Just push through.

            There. It is so brief, but at least it happens.

            Within seconds, I’m over it. He’s spasming underneath me. It feels like a fish out of water trying to flail up my backside. With a sigh, I give it until the count of five. Then I’m quite finished.

            Swinging my leg to the side, I sit beside him. He yelps at the quick retreat. I just sit on the side of the bed, taking in the lay of the land. Not much mess. It must be all over him. He’s still shimmying behind me.

            Time to go.

            I stand up, stretching. We’re in a house that’s not his, but he’s certainly settled into this room like it is. I should know better than to fuck a tourist. But he had one of those large American cocks that you read about, and I’m weak.

            “Hey,” he murmurs. “come back—”

            “Have to wash up,” I reply, walking across the room to the loo.

            With the light on, I shut the door. Oh dear. The poor bastards who own this house are in for a surprise when they get back. Mess. There’s very little as unattractive as mess. Shuddering, I go to the sink and start washing my hands.

            I don’t know what to say for myself. It was slim pickings at the club and I haven’t been fucked since March. Yes, it’s only the first week of April, but we all have needs. And I needed to be fucked by a tall, blond American who called me ‘dude’, apparently. I’m a mystery even to myself.

            I go to dry my hands and stop. There’s a big smear of—something—across the towel. Chocolate? Whatever it is, it’s making my shoulders hunch. I can’t use that towel. I just can’t. Very suddenly, I need to get the fuck out of here. I can wash at home.

            Flicking the water off my hands, I open the door.

            _Shit_.

            The American is sitting on the side of the bed, holding my wand. Amused, he says, “Is this yours? It was on the floor.”

            “Yeah.” I cross the room.

            “What is it?”

            “Magic wand,” I say, taking the wand. “For LARPing.” I start gathering my clothes. I’ve done this enough times that I make sure they all stay in a confined area.

            To my horror, the American says, “You LARP? That’s so great! I’m in a club back home. It’s based on a DnD campaign my friend did.” I make a noncommittal sound, pulling on my underpants, which do _not_ have magical creature puns on them. “You know I’m here for another month. I’d love to go out, see how you guys do it here—”

            “That won’t be happening.”

            “Why not?”

            “That would involve seeing you again.”

            There’s the predictable silence. That silence where bad feelings accumulate, and people turn against me. I’m tugging on my socks when the American says, “So you’re one of those shitty gays, think that being a great lay makes up for your personality.”

            I look up, waiting to see if he has anything else to say. He doesn’t, so I reply, because it’s obvious, “ _Yeah_.” I stick my wand in my coat pocket, picking up my trousers.

            He’s clearly irritated, but I keep putting on my clothes. I’m not great with a smooth exit unless I’m fucking men who are exactly like me.

            “So this is just your shtick. You pick up guys in bars, fuck them, and then leave ten seconds later.”

            “You seemed fine with that until literally thirty seconds ago.”

            “I didn’t think you were just going to take off.”

            Furrowing my brow, I button my trousers. “What gave you the impression I was going to stay?”

            “I don’t know. Basic human decency?”

            “Listen, I was extremely clear from the second _you_ grabbed my cock on the dance floor.” He scoffs, so I put my hands on the back of my hips. “When I said, ‘you want to catch a quick shag in the alley,’ and you said, ‘no, it’s cold, let’s go back to my place,’ and I said, ‘do we have to?’ did that seem like an indication I was keen to come back here? How about when you said, ‘no buses run past my place after midnight, so it’s okay if you stay,’ and I said, ‘no, I’ll figure out how to get home.’ Was that unclear to you?” Shaking my head, I pull on my jumper. “If you want a man who fucks, you pick up a man who says, ‘I only want to fuck.’ If you want to cuddle, get a dog.”

            “You know what happens to guys like you?”

            “We end up alone,” I answer. I point to him. “But we all end up alone.”

            “You don’t just end up alone. You end up bitter and sad and pathetic. You’re gonna wonder how you got that way, and it’ll just be your own fucking fault.”

            I look at him long enough that he flinches. “Wow, you sure told me.” I slip into my jacket, threading my fingers through my hair. “I know what I am. And I’m not some scared boy picking up unavailable men in bars who can never love me, all because I’m too terrified to make an effort with some boring bastard who’ll put a ring on my finger but never fuck me til my eyes cross. Marriage is for the repressed, men who hit their wives, and unimaginative queers. So—best of luck with that, but I’ll be out in the real world, embracing my lonely death and fucking until my prick falls off. Cheers.”

            I walk out the door.

            I come right back, leaning through the doorway. “And please, I beseech you—for the sake of every man who follows me, start wanking in front of a mirror so you can see how tremendously stupid you look while you fuck. It’s a real problem.”

            I leave him there, sputtering.


	3. Chapter 3

On Monday morning, a witch runs into me and I spill my coffee everywhere. She squeaks an apology and promises to buy me a coffee in the tearoom when the opportunity arises, scampering off before I can even say a word.

            So by 10:30, I’m irritated and tired. It’s raining something terrible outside, which I don’t feel like dealing with. Eventually, I do the unthinkable.

            I venture up to the tearoom for a coffee.

            This is a mistake. When I step inside, I see my brother sitting at one of the tables. James stares into his coffee cup. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. That handsomeness of his is beginning to chip away.

            If I go any further into the room, I’ll have to pass his table. It would be just like him to spot me and say something snide. I am uncaffeinated and annoyed, and the last thing I need is for the world to say that eternal black sheep Albus Potter attacked his hero brother for no reason at St. Mungo’s.

            “Out of the way,” someone says loudly, jostling me. Frowning, I step out of the way, wishing she hadn’t been so bloody loud. I glance over, meeting my brother’s eyes.

            Without hesitation, I turn and walk back the way I came.

            I return to the Coffee Republic down the street. My Muggle umbrella doesn’t protect me much, even with charms. I gulp down half my cup of coffee on the way back to the hospital, burning my mouth. I don’t care. I just need the caffeine in my veins or someone will face the brunt of it and I’ll have to apologize.

            I’m not very good at apologizing, mostly because I’m rarely sorry.

            I’m walking up to the back entry when two people come striding through the wall. One has the hood of his robes up. They nearly walk into me. I step aside quickly, raising my coffee out of the way. I will not have a repeat of earlier.

            “Exit’s over _there_ ,” I snap. “Or can you not bloody read?”

            The man in the hood glances back at me, and I shut my mouth. Terrence Quarry. He and the other man walk away from me as if I’m little more than a bug.

            _I’ll find you_ , I think, and tell my name to the wall.

 

If I could manage it, I’d have very little to do with the Ministry. It’s a disaster, same as always. Only the people around me are inextricably tied to the place.

            My father is the Minister for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. My best friend is a junior employee of the Department of Magical Housing. My cousin is a Junior Minister for the Department of Magical Education. My nominal friend is the son of the Minister of Magic. My aunt _was_ the Minister of Magic. And me? I’m on contract to the place.

            So it’s difficult to avoid politics. Not that I’m the kind of person to avoid politics. I just try not to wholly invest my heart in anything. It’s an easy way to go mad.

            I’m tied to social justice causes. Not to the point where I’ll march in the streets about it, but I give my money and wear my pins and am very clear about my opinions.       

            Take my cousin, of whom I have a veritable sea of opinions.

            Rose has spent her career trying to distinguish herself from her mother. On some levels, it’s clever. My aunt was Minister for quite some time, and she was famous long before that. She enacted a lot of legislation that has her name all over it. Literally. My aunt is a know-it-all and doesn’t particularly care for me, but she did more for the advancement of magical creatures in the twenty first century than anyone else on record.

            It’s too much to live up to, so Rose has chosen a different tactic. Right of center. Where cowards live when they don’t want to be called Death Eaters.

            She’s weakened protection for centaur owned lands, increased taxes on magic folk who choose to work in the Muggle sector, and helped defund programs helping the unemployed find housing. She’s a real treat, Rose is. In the past, I kept my mouth shut as much as I could out of respect to Scorpius. And my family, I suppose, but mostly him. I’d snipe at her, because I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror otherwise, but I wasn’t as hard on her as I would have been anyone else.

            Then she comes up with this fucking abomination, to distinguish herself at her new position in the Education Department. And she’s the architect, make no mistake. It’s her baby, from start to finish. Her name is the only name on it, though her cronies think it’s fantastic.

            The bill will make it impossible for Squibs to enroll at Hogwarts. What’s the problem? you might ask. Squibs don’t go to Hogwarts anyways, so why not make it official?

            Because it’s _never_ been official. There’s nothing officially preventing _anyone_ from enrolling in Hogwarts. Magic born, house elf, a toad. Traditionally invitations have gone out to people, but there have been magical creatures who went to Hogwarts, even if people aren’t keen to talk about that. Make it law that Squibs aren’t allowed at Hogwarts, and who’s next?

            The fact that she’s going after Squibs is just that much more disgusting. Magical society has a Squib problem. Families are so embarrassed by them that they’re often kept secret. Abused, bullied. They grow up in the magical world, but they’re barred from everything that their family’s ever done. They can’t even enter the Ministry unassisted, let alone St. Mungo’s. They’re taxed the same as magic folk, but they’re excluded from magic professions because of their handicap, and forced to live in a world that’s foreign to them.

            So of course Squibs are at a higher risk for all manner of things. Suicide is the big one. Substance abuse is another. Homelessness.

            If Rose succeeds in getting her bill through, cutting off education for Squibs, what’s to stop the next person from banning them from all magical housing? There’s already a contingent that wants that. It’s already barely legal to discriminate against Squibs when hiring; they’ll make it completely legal if they get the chance.

            Instead of this prejudiced nonsense, I’m all for the Uagadou model. Squibs are required to attend, just like magical students, but they take classes designed for them. It allows them to get an education in both the magical and Muggle world, so they can move between the two. So they have some preparation for life. Not like our system, where embarrassed parents chuck their children off into Muggle schools and pretend they don’t exist. African Squibs have rates of unemployment half what British Squibs do. There’s even a Squib ruling Lesotho right now.

            But no, you’ve got rising star of the Ministry Rose Granger-Weasley using all her political power to create an inferior second class of magical descent. It’s infuriating.

            And Terrence Quarry is one of her allies.

            He works in the Department of Magical Housing. He doesn’t work with Scorpius. Scorpius works trying to secure funding for the underprivileged (the same people who Rose helped defund in the past). Terrence Quarry works enacting safety in building laws. Or rather, he unmakes them.

            It’s the same nonsense all these greedy bastards come up with. Like Rose saying that banning Squibs from Hogwarts will allow for other schooling to be set up for them, without ever mentioning what that might be, or saying that it honours their Squib identity. Quarry says that by removing safety legislation, he’s cutting red tape that prevents more construction. Yes, because the faster you build, the more effort people put into quality. And certainly builders will adhere to nonofficial standards when it costs more to do so.

            See? See?! Just thinking about it, and I get worked up. This is why I don’t bother.

            This is why I don’t have much guilt undermining these people by selling their secrets. The vast majority are crooks. Nearly everyone at the Ministry is just trying to get a leg up on everyone else, instead of actually doing some good for the population. People who want to make honest, positive change? They don’t get anywhere. They stay at the bottom.

            Trash like Quarry rises to the top. He might run the department in a few years time, even as pipes burst and walls crack.

            So it’s my genuine pleasure to seek out his medical records.

 

It takes me several days of paperwork before it comes to me. In that time, I clear through dozens upon dozens of admitting records. I read all about the magical public’s accidents and diseases and mishaps. I find things that are interesting, but mostly things that I could sincerely not care less about.

            I’m coming near to the end of the day when it finally pops up into the office, in the middle of a stack. I feel like my eyes might dry out, but when I see it, I snatch the paper right out of the air. “Got you, you bastard,” I mutter victoriously.

            Isadora Quarry. 10 years old.

            “ _Shit_.”

            All of that waiting for nothing. Searching, scheming, hoping, and the whole time it’s his daughter. I have few scruples, but I don’t approve of people going through children to get at their parents.

            For obvious reasons.

            Well, I found the thing. I might as well read it.

            10 years old, in perfect health. Arm lacerated, in some cases nearly to the bone. Blimey. I cringe, thinking of the splinters. Was in her bed when the roof above her collapsed…

            The roof above her. Presumably in that new home Quarry just had built. Scorpius told me all about it, another case of people in high places making more than they’re worth. I also know from Scorpius that Quarry used a construction company whose lobbyists pushed for him to repeal a lot of the safety legislation he gutted.

            That prick. That absolute, utter prick. He not only endangers the lives of thousands of people, but he nearly gets his daughter killed using some shady builders.

            It would be such a joy to get this to the right people. _And_ profit from it. But I read the healer’s notes further down. ‘Pleasant 10-year-old girl, small for her age. Understands she nearly lost her life. Adamant that she return home. States she would like to be a healer when she grows up.’

            A little witch being very brave, in other words. I couldn’t, in good conscience, throw her under the Knight Bus just to get a rise out of her father.

            Fucking conscience. Grumbling, I copy the package and put it in my bag, just to be a completist.

            I deserve a piece of cake.

 

Say what you will about the tearoom—and an encyclopedia could be written on the hazards it’s presented over the years—they do make a good piece of cake. Just a simple white cake with vanilla icing. Not too dry, not too moist, but perfectly in the middle.

            “How’s the family?” the witch behind the till asks.

            Fishing out my coins, I reply, “I’m sandwiched between a drug addict and a cripple. Yours?”

            I’m in a pissy mood. I admit, I relish the oval shape her mouth makes. I wait for her to make my change. Flustered, she drops some coins in my hand. They don’t quite make it, scattering down the counter.

            Sighing, I ignore her apology and move further down, so the person behind me can pay. Cupping my hand, I gather the coins together. Bloody cumbersome things. If the Ministry wanted to do something useful, they could finally make the jump to paper money.

            “What about a nice cup of coffee, love?” the witch asks the person after me. I glance up, suspicious. They keep trying to push the new coffee on visitors. “From Guatemala—it’s quite good!”

            I look at the girl behind me—ah. I recognize her. It’s the girl whose brother was going up to the Janus Thickey. She looks exhausted, broken down. She has an egg sandwich and nothing else. “Oh…well…”

            She’s so tired she doesn’t know what she’s doing. The till witch sees that and looks giddy. “I’ll get you a cup—”

            I don’t know why I decide to be a good Samaritan. “Oi.” I shake my head at the girl. “Unless you want a bed for yourself, don’t put that shit in your system.” I pick up my cake, avoiding the till witch’s glare, then go to find a seat for myself by the window.

            It would have been perfect. Quarry nearly kills his child because he’s corrupt. It could end his career. If I didn’t have this bloody hang up, I could put a stake in his political future.

            But I know what it’s like to be a child and be used because I have famous parents. A few times, I sat down and really thought about it, and I think maybe half the people I’ve ever met have tried to get to my father through me. It might be a little more, or a little less, but about half sounds right. I’m good with numbers, after all.

            All through Hogwarts, any time someone tried to befriend me, it was because they wanted to meet my father, or have the prestige of knowing a Potter. When I was eighteen, my first boyfriend, it turned out he was only in it to try and get Dad investing in a start up. Strangers stop me asking me to pass messages, get convictions overturned, get a piece of my father by grabbing a piece of me first.

            Just because it happened to me doesn’t mean I can turn around and do it to someone else. The thought turns my stomach a bit. I’ll admit, I pick and choose who I sacrifice to Sian. I have my self imposed limitations, as if it changes the fact that I’m betraying confidentiality. I try and pretend like I’m doing the least egregious thing, but I’m still a criminal shit.

            Thanks for that, Lily.

            “Excuse me.” I look up. The girl is standing by the table with her egg sandwich. Uncomfortable, she asks, “May I join you?” I glance around. There are other tables. “I won’t bother you. I’m just—I think that if I’m alone another second, I might go insane.”

            I gesture to the seat across from myself. She practically crumples into the chair. I go back to eating my cake, and she picks up her sandwich to nibble at.

            She’s probably a few years younger than I am. Big brown curls, grey eyes. She’s been spelling her hair clean, not actually washing it. You see that in patient families sometimes. They stay here, unable to leave for a single second. Their hair goes shiny. Not greasy, but glossy, only it looks artificial.

            After thirty seconds of silence, I find myself asking, “How’s your brother?”

            “The same.” I don’t know what that means, but I can’t see myself pressing her for more information. She blinks a few times, as if realizing she’s missed something. “I’m Rebecca.”

            “Albus.”

            She nods, just acknowledging it. “You were right.”

            “I usually am. What about?”

            “When that witch cut me. They nearly fell over backwards when I said I wanted to sue under that provision. It scared them, actually. They were even going to move Richie back out of the ward. But…Healer Morrow caught word of it. Stopped that. He didn’t seem afraid.” Rebecca shrugs. “They compromised. There’s a specialist, from Portugal. He’ll be up here in a few weeks giving a lecture. They’ve said he’ll come see Richie. But I can’t get them to move him off the ward.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Has anyone…has anyone ever left the ward?”

            She’s still got hope. “I’ve only been here two years—”

            “What about in those two years?”

            “No. Only way people leave is by dying.”

            “Then he’s not in the right place.”

            I don’t reply to that. Healers don’t just send people to the Janus Thickey on a whim. There’s a three part process, that involves at least six different healers from different specialties signing off. Janus Thickey is meant for irreversible spell damage. It’s where people go when there’s no hope. It’s ridiculous to think that the healers don’t want people to get better. They come in here and put in ridiculous hours and perform the impossible in order to put magic folk back together. Yes, they get to be a bit jaded, but they don’t just give up on people who have any hope of recovery.

            Which is to say, this woman’s brother is obviously broken beyond repair. Families fool themselves. They never want to accept the inevitable.

            “Sorry. I’ve spent the last two months… I’ve said the same things so many times that I can’t seem to say anything different. I’m not great company.”

            “That’s fine. I wasn’t looking for company.”

            Rebecca picks at the bread on her sandwich. “What do you do here?”

            “I work in Records. What do you do?”

            She lets out a soft laugh. Like she’d forgotten that too. “I make flower crowns. For special occasions.” Rebecca takes one last look at her sandwich, then pushes it away. “I haven’t really been in the mood for making flower crowns since this all started. Not that I’ve been home for more than an hour at a time.”

            “What about the rest of your family?”

            She shakes her head. “Our parents died when I was seventeen. I’m the one who looks after Richie.”

            Furrowing my brows, I ask, “How old is your brother?”

            “He turned sixteen on New Year’s Eve.”

            Sixteen. Fuck. That’s young to go into the Janus Thickey. “Did something happen to him up at Hogwarts?”

            Rebecca shakes her head again. “He went to Hogwarts for a few years, but…it wasn’t really for him. It’s easier to have him at home. He can direct his own studies. He’s brilliant. A prodigy, really. He said Hogwarts constrained him. And it did.”

            “Slytherin?”

            “Yeah. He sits out behind the house with all his books and…he’s a good kid. The best kid.”

            “So…what happened?”

            “I found him outside, unconscious. He hasn’t woken up.”

            “What do they think happened?”

            “They don’t know. All the brightest minds at St. Mungo’s, and they say they’ve never seen anything like it. And they say, we’ve tried for three months. As if that’s all the time you should give to a teenage boy in a coma. Lock him away for good, move onto other things. That’s what they tell me.”

            “They are the brightest minds,” I say lamely.

            Rebecca looks up at the window. After a moment, she looks at me and says, “Do you have siblings?”

            “Ah—”

            “Of course you do. I mean, I know who you are. You’re close?”

            “They would not piss on me if I was on fire.”

            She gazes at me a moment, then smiles faintly. “My friend Tanya, she always says, famous people aren’t more fucked up than everyone else. It’s just that more people are watching. I love my brother. He’s my world, really. I can’t just let go. Could anyone?”

            I could. Quite easily. But even though I’m not a great person, I know she’s not looking for that answer right now. So instead, I say nothing at all.


	4. Chapter 4

The night of Scorpius’ seventeenth birthday, I was back in our room hours before him. Slytherins, despite the apathetic, elegant image they like to project when it comes to celebrations, paint the walls with vomit when it comes to seventeenth birthdays. You only become an adult once, and Slytherin, unlike the other Houses, allows students who are of age to drink during a birthday celebration.

            I’d snuck one drink. I didn’t think much of the students who drank. They all grew disgustingly out of control. Everyone used these occasions to gather blackmail on one another. I was not going to give anyone the opportunity.

            Not that anyone bothered. I was known as Albus ‘Slytherin Squib’ Potter at Hogwarts. Everyone had decided within days of my arrival that there would never be anything interesting about me. Standardized magic didn’t come easily to me, which was bad enough. Some speculated that I might turn out to be a villain, but they quickly decided I couldn’t achieve that either. So I was shunted off to the sidelines.

            Usually that didn’t bother me, because I had Scorpius. Scorpius was worth a whole school of friends. He was my opposite in many ways—the most optimistic person I’d ever encountered. Even when he was being silly or unrealistic about it, I didn’t think less of him, like I would an empty headed Hufflepuff. Scorpius saw that life was horrible, and he made a clear choice to live like it wasn’t. Anyone else, I’d think it was naïve. With him—it seemed admirable.

            If he’d had any other last name, he would have been one of the most popular boys in school. Our first few years at Hogwarts, though, people thought he was Voldemort’s son. Even when we thought Delphini was Voldemort’s child, people didn’t treat him any differently. Still a Malfoy, they said. And when it was proven in court, by magical means, that Delphine was, in fact, Rodolphus Lestrange’s daughter, that he had told her a massive lie based only on his insecurities, everyone was quick to return to Scorpius as the heir apparent.

            Which is the _stupidest_ thing anyone has ever thought. Find me a person on the face of the earth who is less like Tom Riddle, and I’ll eat my own spleen. Not to mention, he’s the spitting image of his father, just with a lot of the cruel edges replaced by his mother.

            We moved along through school together, the two biggest outcasts. We only needed one another. The yin to the other’s yang.

            But you can only smother another person’s light for so long.

            That’s how I imagined it sometimes. Scorpius was this bouncing ball of light, and I was this big black blanket, cast over him. Or the world was the blanket, or people were. We all conspired to never let him out where he ought to be.

            However, if you got a few drinks in him and shaved away some of that social awkwardness, he was the life of the party. Slytherins aren’t so stuck up that they’ll avoid someone who’s amusing.

            That and he was finally making some headway with Rose.

            I’d left when I saw him lead her out onto the balcony. The combination of alcohol and his birthday had been enough for him to finally make a move. He had asked her out several times over the past two years, never obnoxious about it, always accepting her refusal, and after some time, he would try again. Soft and relentless as a puppy. This time, though, I saw the smile on Rose’s face as he pulled her from the room.

            I knew I was being jealous. I knew that I was just being sour because this meant I’d have to share Scorpius with someone else, a thing I’d not had to do in the six years we’d been friends. Not only that, but I would need to share him with my cousin, who had looked down on him from the moment we met. Rose didn’t deserve Scorpius, I knew that.

            I sat on my bed, resting against some pillows, reading the same page of my magical creatures textbook repeatedly. It was after midnight, and I could still hear the party raging in the common room. _Drunken idiots_ , I thought bitterly, and flipped the page, even though I had no idea what I’d just read.

            The door flung open. Yelping, the book popped up out of my hands, and I grabbed at it. Scorpius hung against the doorway, a grin plastered over his face.

            “Albus!” He threw his arm out and proclaimed, “I am a man!”

            Pulling a face, I said, “I don’t need to hear about you shagging my cousin.”

            Scorpius dropped his head back, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be _crass_. Also, you overestimate me, which I appreciate, but no, that is not what I meant.” He stumbled inside, sort of bending backwards to push the door closed. He was very drunk, unable to stand up straight. There was a nearly empty bottle in his hand. The label said it was gin, but I had to believe Scorpius would be dead if he’d drunk an entire bottle of gin. Nearly falling forward, Scorpius spread his arms. “I have _kissed_ Rose Millicent Weasley Granger. I am a man who has kissed a woman, Albus, and therefore a man.”

            He staggered over to my bed. I glowered at him, but Scorpius was oblivious. He nearly plummeted as he sat on the side of my bed. Lifting the bottle, he drank the last few dregs.

            “Did you get her drunk to do it?” I asked snidely.

            Scorpius shook his head. “No. She was quite sober. She said that Gryffindors aren’t allowed to drink on campus.” It sounded like he thought that was charming. Scorpius let out a happy sigh, then threw the bottle over his shoulder. I grabbed my wand and cast a levitation charm on it before it could shatter. “It was magical, Albus, it really was. She’s so fantastic. Rose. Rosie Rosie _Rose_. Rose Granger-Weasley—no, Weasley-Granger. Rose Malfoy.” He let out a laugh.

            Lowering the bottle onto the floor, I tossed aside my book. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I sat beside him. “So what? Was it a pity kiss? A birthday kiss? She’d gotten so sick of you asking that she said, just this once?”

            “Nope,” Scorpius said with relish. “I asked if she’d be my girlfriend, and she said yes. Then I kissed her.”

            I felt a flare of anger so sudden and sharp that it startled me. Looking down at the floor, I tried to push it down. There was no reason to be furious, just because my friend had a girlfriend. I was being childish.

            “I wish you could have been there, Albus.”

            “I don’t.”

            “No, I mean—she’s so _great_ , you know? She’s smart, and driven, and knows what she wants. She’s always been like that. I _love_ her, Albus, I truly do.”

            “Here’s a tip: don’t tell her you love her when you haven’t even touched her tits or you never will.”

            “Albus _Potter_ ,” Scorpius said, “would you have some respect when it comes to my future wife?” But he was laughing, so drunk that I don’t think he even knew what he found funny.

            “She’s not your future wife, she’s my cousin.”

            “Yes she is, and you know what that means?” Scorpius clapped his hand over mine, beaming at me. “We’ll be family, you and I! Proper, proper family, forever and always. We’ll both be Weasleys!”

            “Your father will shit his pants.”

            “He might, yeah.” Scorpius began chuckling again. “It was perfect. The sky and the stars and the—rocks.”

            Rolling my eyes, I said, “The rocks?”

            He started gesturing at the floor. “The— _rocks_! The things!” Scorpius flapped his arms, trying to illustrate something.

            “You look like a bird. What, you mean the stones? The castle?”

            He nearly put out one of my eyes, pointing in my face. “Precisely! The castle was perfect. And she was perfect, and _I_ was perfect, and you would have loved it. Or maybe you wouldn’t have, you grumpy bastard.” Scorpius reached over, pinching my cheek. “Grumpy grump grump—”

            I shoved him off. “Do _not_ —”

            Only he was cackling. He looked ecstatic. I was so used to seeing Scorpius be upbeat despite the odds that it was a surprise to see him be joyous in a moment where everything was going his way. _It’s supposed to be like this for him all the time_ , I realized, and I was sorry for him. I was sorry for myself.

            I needed to be a better friend. “This is—really good. I’m happy for you, mate.”

            “I’m over the sodding moon,” Scorpius agreed.

            “And now you’re a man.”

            He puffed up his chest. “I am,” he said with pomposity.

            I snorted. “Report back to those of us who aren’t, will you?”

            “You’ll get there! You’ll be seventeen in a few months, and we’ll get absolutely schnozzled and you’ll kiss some girl and we’ll be men together.”

            “No one’s going to kiss me, even if she’s drunk.”

            “Don’t be such a fucking dark cloud.”

            I blinked, surprised. Scorpius didn’t curse, not like that. “Not everyone is like you. Some of us will die bitter, lonely virgins.”

            “Oh, he’s so sour. Look at his sour face.” Scorpius squeezed the back of my neck, swaying me to and fro. “Someone will kiss you.”

            “No they won’t.”

            He tugged me closer and kissed me. His mouth was warm and soft and sticky. The alcohol on his lips attached to my skin, connecting us even further. His curls brushed my forehead. The point of his nose pressed into my cheek and below that his lips touched mine, insistent, happy.

            Scorpius pulled back before I could even react. I was staring at him. He didn’t seem to notice my shock. Instead, he messed up my hair cheerfully. “There! Now you are a man!”

            He pushed away, oblivious to what he had just done to me. I felt…scraped raw. I looked down, and saw that my hands were claws.

            Scorpius started looking around. “Where’s that bottle? I need another drink!”

            He stood up, and made it about two steps before he tripped over his own feet. Pitching forward, he fell on his face, breaking both his nose and knocking himself out.

            In the morning, Scorpius didn’t remember a thing. I knew that if he was faking not remembering, he would have been an awkward mess, avoiding me and babbling. He was his usual self, making jokes about getting too drunk. He told me in the infirmary that he’d kissed Rose, like he was telling me for the first time.

            Scorpius didn’t remember. I did.

 

I watch Scorpius from across the table. There’s a spot on his collar. It’s driving me mad. Scorpius is obsessive about keeping his clothes neat and tidy. He’s always been about making a good impression. He knows he needs to use all weapons at his disposal. Fashion has been one of his tools. I’m familiar with his blue suit. Fitted to him in a way that only young, fashionable wizards get away with, a shade just a touch too bright to be normal. He wears a shirt under the vest in a more muted tone of blue, and that’s where the spot is.

            Did he cut himself shaving? It’s dark enough that it might be blood, but I don’t see a nick on his neck. Besides, his father would have caught that before he left the house. The only person more aware than Scorpius of how to make an impression is his father, and Mr. Malfoy would never let his son out into the world with blood on his clothes.

            I could just tell him. The thing is, I don’t want to tell him. I want him to realize for himself, to see that there’s something amiss, to want to take care of himself. The way he always has.

            But that is fucking ridiculous, because how is he supposed to see his own collar?

            “You’ve got something—” I gesture to his shirt.

            Scorpius looks up from the lunch he’s been picking at. Without a word, he draws his wand and conjures a mirror, glancing at himself with disinterest.

            I don’t know when exactly I fell in love with Scorpius. Maybe I always have been. It was before I knew I was gay, before I even knew what I was feeling. I’ve loved him with all my heart for years and years and years. I doubt I’ll ever love anyone the way I love him.

            It’s never been a matter of trying to make him love me back. I’ve always known that it wasn’t a possibility. He’s straight, and no wishing will change that, no spell will fix it.

            Scorpius taps his wand against his collar, disappearing the spot, then vanishes the mirror. “Well.” He smiles crookedly. “Sad bastard brigade.”

            I smile back. We’re sitting in the cafeteria at the Ministry. We take turns between here and the hospital and the park, but I get to see him every day for lunch during the week. It’s the bright spot of my day. No getting around it. Being near him, that’s the best it gets.

            I don’t feel sorry for myself, loving him. Anyone with a scrap of common sense would fall in love with him. I’m just doing what nature wants of me. Fighting only makes it worse.

            “How’s sleeping in your childhood bed?”

            “I actually haven’t slept this well in years. I like a soft mattress, but we never had one in the flat, so it’s pretty nice to be back in that bed.”

            “Yes, I definitely meant the bed itself and not the general situation.”

            “It’s fine. Dad’s happy for the company, Nibbly’s happy to spoil me—I even think the peacocks are pleased to have me about. It’s all as it should be.”

            “Have you thought about finding your own place?”

            Scorpius makes a face. “Seems a bit wasteful. There’s plenty of space at the Manor, someone does the cooking, I’m comfortable—no, I’m fine.”

            I realize that he’s never lived on his own before. We had a flat together after we left Hogwarts, then he moved in with Rose. Scorpius has never needed a large circle of friends, but I don’t know how well he’d do entirely by himself. I think he’d be quite lonely.

            “Remember, mate, if you ever get sick of avoiding the house elf, my door’s always open. I wouldn’t even make you sleep on the sofa. You could sleep on the floor of the guest room. I’d charge you for it, of course, but remember. Door’s always open.”

            “You have such a kind and giving heart, Albus.” Scorpius threads his fingers together. “To be honest, I think this has been good for Dad. He seems near giddy to have me around, and the only time Dad gets giddy is when he shorts someone on the international markets.”

            “I’d be happy too, having you around, if the only company I ever had in that massive place was the ray of sunshine that’s Nibbly.”

            “Yeah.” Scorpius frowns, looking guilty. He gets like that, sometimes, if we talk about his father. “I hate the idea of him there by himself until he dies. Missing Mum and dying alone.”

            “Sounds like my grandfather.”

            Pausing, Scorpius suddenly grins. “I have a cracking idea. Your granddad and my father, flatmates.”

            I drop my fork, staggered. “Merlin’s beard, it would be priceless.”

            Doing a perfect impersonation of his father, Scorpius says, “I couldn’t help but notice that jumper you’re wearing, Arthur. Are those…tassels?”

            I do my best Granddad. “Draco, come have a sit with me. I’ll show you my plug collection!”

            “I’m afraid I haven’t considered what keeps airplanes up. Such an—interesting mode of transportation.”

            “Let’s order in from that place down the lane. You know, that one that does the chips. You know, in America, they call them _French_ fries! You appreciate French things, don’t you?”

            Scorpius props up his chin on both hands. “It’s the buddy comedy we deserve.”

            “Tell your father that. I think he’d combust if he stepped inside the Burrow.”

            “He would, you know. The clutter? Dad would break out in a rash.” Scorpius sighs. “I miss the Burrow.”

            “Come round with me on the weekend. We’ll visit Granddad.”

            “No. No, I’m…not part of the Weasleys anymore. That would be a bit pitiful, even for me.”

            “You’re more of a brother to me than my own brother. You’ll always be a Weasley to me.”

            Scorpius smiles a bit, then slides a biscuit across the table to me. “Cheers. How is your brother, by the way? Seen him since the last debacle?”

            “We locked eyes at the hospital awhile back, but I did the mature thing and walked in the other direction without saying hello.”

            “And have you heard anything else about Harry Potter Day?”

            He has such a glint in his eye. If my shitty family amuses him, at least they’ll finally have a use. “No, thank God. They must be at a stalemate now. If they ask Lily to speak, they’ll have to ask me as well. And if they ask me, they’ll have to ask Lily. My parents certainly wouldn’t risk either of those outcomes.”

            “Remember last Harry Potter Day?”

            “The only one who can ever forget _is_ Lily.”

            Last year, Lily disappeared for a week before Dad’s birthday. She’d disappeared before, enough times that I couldn’t muster the same concern that everyone else was exhibiting. At that point…well, Lily had burned a lot of bridges with me. After a great deal of fuss, she showed up in the middle of the Ministry’s annual picnic on July 30th, which Dad was not attending but the rest of us were. She was still wearing last week’s makeup, unable to modulate her voice, singing Dad’s theme music. Before any of us could get to her (or rather Mum and James, because I didn’t bother), she’d flashed the Wizengamot her nipples, then vomited on the Minister of Finance. Never a dull moment with Lily.

            “Perhaps it’s for the best she blacked it out,” Scorpius remarks.

            “When it comes to Lily, the only thing for the best is a frontal lobotomy.”

            “Ah, siblings. I have to tell you, I used to long for a brother or sister. Then I met yours, and I was cured of that.”

            “I’m pleased our dysfunction has been of some use to you.” I tap my fingers on the table a few times, then say, “How are you doing, really?”

            Scorpius stops. “You mean all joking aside?”

            Why did I say that? Shrugging, I say, “Suppose I do.”

            He stops to think about it, instead of immediately reassuring me that everything is fine. “I don’t know the way forward anymore. I was so certain of the future. Rose and I would get married, have children. I’d wear down my bosses, finally move up. I knew the house we’d live in, where our kids would go to school, which holidays we’d spend with my dad and which with her parents. I knew where it was all going to go. It was never in question. Now there’s only questions. And that means that there’s no certainty to anything. I couldn’t even see that Rose didn’t love me anymore. What do I know about anything, Albus?”

            All I want is to tell him that I’ll do everything in my power to take care of him. That seeing him like this breaks what little heart I have. He doesn’t need to fret, because he’s brilliant and kind and that has to count for something. I’d do anything to help him, to keep him on his feet and going forward. I’d do anything to make him happy.

            But there’s no way I can tell him that.

            Scorpius suddenly smiles. “That’s just being gloomy, isn’t it. No point in that! The only thing to do is keep my chin up and do my job and remember I’ve got a great father and great friends. And I have you, which counts for a surprising amount.”

            I’d like to tell him that he doesn’t have to pretend. That he’s allowed to just be sad, if that’s what he needs.

            Instead, I tell him, “I’m strangely fond of you as well. So carry on, sad bastard.”

            Scorpius smirks and goes back to his lunch. I sit here with all the things I can never tell him.

            But loving someone the way I love Scorpius—if you find a person like this, it can’t be about what you want. It has to be about what’s best for them. Him knowing my secret thoughts aren’t helpful. All I can do is love him quietly, and be the best friend he’s ever had.

            That’s enough.

 

I’m still thinking about Scorpius hours later, even as I do my continual scan through demographics.

            86-year-old witch burns hands on stove. Man takes expired potion, grows second tongue. Conjoined twins accidentally separate, want to be rejoined. Patient showing signs of common cold, advised to get plenty of rest and not waste hospital resources. Middle aged woman burping up tea every time she opens her mouth.

            This is the first time since we were kids that he’s been single. Not that it means anything, because he’s straight. He’s been broken up from Rose for two weeks and, what? I’m going to take advantage of him while he’s grieving and convince him to make a drunken bad decision? No. I’m a shit, but I’d never do that to him. Or myself. I’d regret it the rest of my life, and I know it.

            I need to just be silently in love with him until we die. That’s the only option.

            Twin toddlers meowing. 9-year-old girl who abruptly grew horse teeth while horseback riding. Day trader experiences nervous breakdown in his office, starts flying his broom around indoors, aurors called in, he’s treated for scrapes and put under observation.

            Of course, being in love with Scorpius means not being in love with anyone else. It’s impossible. I found the one person on earth who understands me, whose company I can bear, and he happens to be gorgeous on top of it. He’s my missing piece. Anyone else cannot compare. It’s Scorpius that’s torpedoed every one of my brief relationships. Either I break it off because they can’t live up to him, or they dump me because they can all tell I’ll love him more than I ever will anyone else. Everyone tells me it’s obvious.

            Scorpius is the only one who doesn’t seem to realize.

            Man hears tapping inside his head, flutter mites suspected. Knight Bus collides with a Muggle, brought to St. Mungo’s for spine reconstruction and memory modification. University student trying to impress people at a party putting light bulbs in his mouth and lighting them, electrocutes himself (serves him right, the stupid git). Professor of indigenous studies takes flight in the middle of a class.

            Is this really how I want to spend the rest of my life? Pining for a man who’s simply not built for me? For anything that I want? If it were anyone else, I’d laugh in their face. I’d tell them not to be so stupid. Loving someone you can’t have is a waste. I tell myself that. I’ve told myself that, repeatedly, only because it’s Scorpius, that waste doesn’t seem like a loss. It seems almost noble in its folly. That’s only me trying to placate myself, though. I know that.

            If Rose had married him, it would have been easier. I haven’t had these running-in-circles thoughts for a long time. But she’s gone and buggered up my equilibrium. Fucking Rose.

            Food poisoning at a café, six people brought in vomiting rainbows. A woman with talking snakes for hair, claims she’s a gorgon. 7-year-old brought in with lacerations after exploding a window. Elderly indigent Muggle with psychiatric issues gets into A&E, claims she’s a witch who lost her powers—

            Wait.

            I stop, squinting at the page. I reach out, plucking it from the air.

            Am I mad or was there something similar to this some weeks back? There was a homeless Muggle claiming to have magic. The same person? I could have sworn that was a man, though.

            I skim the page. There’s nothing written here about the patient having a history of this behaviour, and usually the healers down in A&E spot the repeat offenders and make a note. Fatima Gundersen, 73 years of age, no fixed address, says she walked from Bracknell. Christ, that’s a long way for an old woman to walk. No next of kin. Presented on a Monday morning in distress, claiming to be a witch who lost her powers. Stated that her magic was stolen by a dragon. So she’s certainly sane. Patient confessed to following a healer through the entrance. Having audio and visual hallucinations. Displayed paranoia. Memory was wiped and discharged.

            It’s not all that remarkable. Sometimes Muggles make their way into St. Mungo’s. Usually family of witches and wizards. We also see one or two mentally ill Muggles claiming to be magic in a year.

            But to have two in the span of weeks? That doesn’t seem right. That doesn’t seem right at all. I wonder—

            There’s a loud knock on my door. In surprise, I close my hand, crumpling the page. Shit. Who’s bothering me?

            Now what is this fuckery?

            Suzette’s standing at the door, looking smug. Behind her stands my mother, giving me a guilty smile. Oh no.

            Suzette opens the door. “Albus. Your mother is here to see you.”

            I know how she feels about family members coming up to Records. Rosaline’s husband brought her lunch once and by the time Suzette was done with her, Rosaline was lying on the bathroom floor having a panic attack. This is going to be a sit down conversation in her office. Buggering fuck.

            “I see that.”

            Mum leans past Suzette. “Hi, Al. I thought I’d pull you out of here for an early dinner.”

            Don’t do this to me. Don’t embarrass me at work. I say levelly, “I’ve still got a lot to do.”

            Suzette opens the door wider. “We wouldn’t want you to keep your mother waiting. I’m sure you can finish all this up tomorrow. Al.”

            I glare at her for a second before admitting defeat. With a tight smile, I say, “I suppose I can. Thank you. Suze.”

            From the look on her face, she won’t be calling me Al again. Suzette smiles obsequiously at my mother. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Potter.”

            “And you,” Mum replies. Suzette walks away, probably already planning our talk tomorrow. Mum turns back to me, lifting her shoulders.

            “What are you doing here?”

            She arches a brow. “I can tell you’re thrilled, but try to tone it down a little, love.”

            “I’m working. I have work.”

            “I used to always take you out for a meal. Your brother and sister too.”

            “When I was working in a cupboard at the Ministry where no one cared that I existed. Suzette—” I let out a breath. I can’t explain it to Mum. She’s one of the greatest athletes in Quidditch history and she’s married to the most famous man on the planet. No one will ever treat Mum the way Suzette treats me. “Is something wrong?”

            “The only thing wrong is you’re acting like there’s some big fuss. Come on. Get your things, let’s get some food.”

            She tries to look innocent. But I know my mother.

 

Mum does everything right. She agrees to the trendy vegetarian restaurant I suggest. She doesn’t mention the family, she tells funny stories, she asks about Zamora. When I finish my drink, she immediately calls over the waitress to get me another. She smiles, she meets my eyes, she listens attentively.

            When her faux-chicken and mushroom dish is set before her, Mum even says, “Yummy.” She looks a little green around the gills, but she gives me a smile and lays her napkin across her lap.

            I can’t take it. At this point I’m starting to feel bad for all the effort she’s putting in. I wait for the waitress to leave, then I say, “Mum.”

            “What, dear?”

            “Please tell me what it is that you want.”

            “I want to spend some quality time with my middle child.”

            “In the two years I’ve been at this job, you’ve never just dropped by to take me to dinner. I know your tricks. You want me to do something. You haven’t mentioned Dad or James or Lily, so it must have something to do with one of them.”

            Mum looks at me, then sighs. She brushes her hair back from her forehead. “Al…”

            “So what is it? You want me to check in on James? He’d know it was from pity and then he’d be cross at the both of us instead of just me.”

            “I wish…you would be a little kinder to your brother.”

            “Have you told him the same thing?”

            “I have, actually.”

            “And what did he say to that?”

            “He said he would.”

            “He lied through his teeth, is what you mean.”

            “You’re all adults. I understand being out of sorts when you were teenagers, but—you all just need to make more of an effort. You might not want to believe me, but siblings, they can be your very best friends in the world. They can be a source of support, of safety. I wish you three would act like it.”

            I’m unmoved. “Mum, we’re not like you and your brothers. You all like each other. You’ve always liked each other. James has never liked me, and Lily followed his lead. I’m not going to beg either of them for affection. I have some pride.”

            “You’re all so stubborn. If one of you gave just an inch…”

            “Then the others would consider it a sign of weakness and pounce. Is this really about James? You’re having soy based meat in an effort to get me to puff up James?”

            “No one is asking you to puff him up—and no, that’s not what this is about. But Albus, he’s lonely.” I snort, picking up my fork. This fake chicken curry looks delicious. “It’s not funny. He doesn’t want to talk to his friends. He’s not leaving his house. He’s depressed. He could use some support from his brother.”

            “I’ll look into that.”

            “Albus.”

            “Mum.”

            “He needs your help.”

            “No. He needs to pull his head out of his ass and be a man.”

            Mum shakes her head at me. “Really? That’s the best you have to offer? Your brother loses his arm, and your best advice is for him to be a man? That’s progressive of you.”

            “I’m sorry, but my sympathies do not extend to James. They’re with the woman in the box.”

            At first, Mum doesn’t react. She drops her eyes, and says, “What do you mean?”

            I’m unconvinced. “I have access to all the records in St. Mungo’s. Do you want to press me on what I know about James’ heroic adventures?”

            She’s upset. I see it in the line of her jaw. For a second, I think Mum might get up and leave. However, she takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax. “Okay, we’ll drop the subject.”

            “Let’s. Do you want to tell me what you want yet?”

            Mum doesn’t reply. She picks up her glass of wine and takes a long, deliberate sip. I know I frustrate her. I frustrate everyone. But I know who I am, and I don’t see why I should change that to make others more comfortable.

            I wait, dread pooling in my stomach. “Lily? Is it about Lily?”

            Mum rubs her lips together, then gives her head a shake. “I understand that you’re angry with Lily. We’re all angry with Lily, to be honest with you. I can’t force you to forgive her. I’m having to work quite hard on that myself. So no, I’m not going to ask you to do anything differently about Lily.”

            “Ask you something?”

            “Anything.”    

            “How could you invite her back in? After everything.”

            Blowing out a breath, Mum thinks about it. “That’s a big question and the answer is…complicated. Part of it is being her mum, and when you’re a parent, you’re supposed to never give up. That’s easier said than done, of course, because your sister has done some…terrible things.”

            “She ransacked the Burrow for valuables while we were at Nan’s funeral.”

            It takes Mum a moment to respond. As composed as she’s trying to be, she’s obviously still furious. “Among other things,” Mum finally says. “Another part of it is recognizing that she’s an addict, and there are some things she can’t control. Which isn’t to say she’s not accountable for the things she’s done. She can’t control being an addict, but she can control the choices she makes as an addict. This isn’t something that’s just going to go away. It took me a long time, coming to terms with the fact that your sister will never _not_ be an addict. And personally as I’ve taken her slips, I know now that nearly all addicts relapse. Regardless of how unpalatable I find the notion, relapse is a part of recovery. Even with how infuriated she’s made me, I love her to bits, Al. If I thought cutting her off completely would fix this, I’d do it. But I don’t know that it would. It will help with her recovery if we’re there for her but…also being cognizant of not letting ourselves be taken advantage of.”

            When she stops speaking, I sum up, “So you’ve joined a support group.”

            Mum hangs her head, sheepish. “That obvious?”

            “You sound like my friend Kimber. Her parents are drunks. She runs a group.”

            “I swore I wouldn’t be one of those people, you know. Spilling all my woes to a bunch of strangers. After what happened to your brother, though. I realized that I’d always expected Lily to be the one for something really serious to happen to. Nearly losing one child made me realize I’d been waiting years for the other to die. It was too much for me to deal with on my own. I like to think I can do everything myself, but that’s hubris.”

            If it’s not James, and it’s not Lily… “So did you want me to come out to discuss Granddad?” I ask, holding out hope.

            Mum grimaces, then says hesitantly, “Could we talk about Harry Potter Day?”

            I shut down. Digging into my food, I avoid her gaze. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

            “It would mean a lot to your father—”

            “It can’t mean that much if he can’t be bothered to talk to me himself.” I put too much food in my mouth and chomp on it.

            “If he tried to do it himself, how receptive would you be?”

            Swallowing, nearly choking, I reply, “More receptive than sitting here, having to watch you clean up another one of his messes. He’s nearly 50 years old; he can take care of himself.”

            “Not when it’s you, he can’t.”

            “He’s the famous Harry Potter. He killed the evilest wizard in history. But he can’t handle 10 minutes alone with his own son? I’m not buying it. It’s him and his fragile ego. That’s the issue.”

            Mum is giving me a strange look. “You won’t believe me, but you’re so much like him when he was your age.”

            “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”

            “He was angry, like you are. It hurts me to see that, sweetheart.”

            “It’s better to be angry than unaware.”

            “Don’t you get tired?”

            “Every second of every minute of my life.”

            Mum leans forward, trying to catch my eyes. I look down at my bowl, stabbing my food repeatedly. “Your father has always had a difficult time talking to you. Do you know why that is?”

            “I refuse to perpetuate the falsehood of the infallible warrior?”

            “Albus, you intimidate him.”

            After a few seconds, I snort. “Come off it,” I laugh.

            “No, you do.” I narrow my eyes at her. Mum insists, “You absolutely do. You weren’t that far off, Albus. For the past forty years, nearly every single person in the magical world has treated your father like the saviour of humanity, even before he’d done it. It’s a miracle your father’s as grounded as he is, but of course he’s gotten used to it. The only people who don’t treat him differently are me, your aunt, your uncle—even your brother and sister, they believe the myth. You’re the only one of his children who hasn’t bought into the legend. Your aunt and uncle and I, we try to keep him tethered, but we were there for the dark times, so we grant him a lot of leeway. You are the only person who treats him like a middle aged man who is incredibly flawed. Like he’s a disappointment. You are so disappointed in him, Albus, and it proves to him all his secret doubts. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, and he’s a heterosexual, middle aged man, so he chooses to not respond at all.”

            I cross my arms. After some fidgeting, I say, “Has he said any of that to you?”

            “He doesn’t have to. I’m his wife. I know what he’s thinking, the same way I know you are so angry because you love him so much and he let you down. He’s hurt you so many times, and I am so sorry. He is so sorry but he doesn’t know how to say that to you. I would fix this if I could, love, but it’s up to the two of you to do that.”

            “And, what, you think it will help if I show up at this stupid celebration and keep my mouth shut?”

            “It would mean a lot—to me and to him—if you _wanted_ to be there.”

            She might as well ask for the moon. But I can’t exactly tell my own mother to fuck off. I tap my fingers against my arm a few times. “Do you remember what happened when I came out?”

            “I do.”

            “He told me it was a phase. That I was only saying I was gay because it would reflect badly on him, and once I’d had my fun I’d drop it. That’s what he said to me. He asked why I always had to embarrass him.”

            “It was a terrible thing to say. But you forgave him.”

            “I did that for you.”

            “No, you did that yourself. You might like to pretend otherwise, but I know. You pick and choose what you want to forgive. You’ve _never_ forgiven him for Scorpius.”

            I pause. “No.” She shouldn’t have brought that up. I’m getting upset just thinking about it. “He would have been a perfect auror. If he’d just been brave enough.”

            “Al—”

            “That’s what Dad told me. Why he rejected Scorpius’ application. He just wasn’t brave enough. Even though he passed every single test with flying colours. Even after Scorpius saved all our lives when he was still a child. He saved us all from a world where Voldemort lived, and Dad’s so sack hurt over a childhood bully that he fucked up all of Scorpius’ chances at the Ministry. If the perfect Harry Potter hates him, there must be a reason, and it’s five years on and no one will give him a promotion and Rose left him because he’ll never be successful but he just keeps trying because he wants so badly to help other people and tell me how that makes any sense?!”

            I slam my hand on the table. The cutlery jumps and people glance at us. Abashed, I bite my lip and look down.

            “Feel better?” Mum asks.

            “No, I feel irritated.”

            “You’ve got a big heart.”

            “Saying something repeatedly doesn’t make it true,” I mutter.

            “You can bring Scorpius to the celebration, if you like.”

            I don’t want to keep going over this with her. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll come to Harry Potter Day. I’ll keep my mouth shut, play the part, all of it. On one condition: Dad comes to me himself and admits he didn’t tell me about it because he didn’t want me to speak.”

            Mum sighs. “That—is unlikely. But I will speak to him.”

            “Fine. Let’s talk about something else.” I pick up my drink. I’m not near tipsy enough.

            Mum smiles and asks, “Are there any boys?”

            I’m suddenly exhausted. Too tired to be evasive, I say, “There’s only ever been one.” Mum doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Tell me about Quidditch, Mum. Just tell me about Quidditch.”

            I can see that she wants to talk about meaningful things. She wants to ask me questions, and give me advice, but we both know that all I can do is fight. So Mum says, “The Manchester Merpeople might be sold. Did you hear about that?”

           

I apparate home as the sun is setting. I had three drinks with dinner, just enough to make me a touch less annoyed with the world.

            Why am I like this?

            When my feet touch down, there’s a pleasant surprise sitting on the back step. Scorpius raises a cheerful hand. “I heard you were renting out floors to the desperate.”

            I smile, just the sight of him enough to settle me. “I don’t know about the desperate, but there’s always room for you.”

            The lift of his mouth. The crinkle of his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

I try not to enjoy my morning with Scorpius. Try and fail.

            The malice-free fight to use the shower first. Having a quick breakfast, me grumpy because it’s only Tuesday morning, Scorpius overly chipper in an effort to bother me. Refusing to let him know how much that pleases me, suspicious that he might know nonetheless. Groaning as he darts back into the bathroom to check his hair, me glancing pointedly at the clock.

            It’s surprisingly nice, having someone to ride the Tube with. It goes by in the blink of an eye. Scorpius listens attentively while I tell him about _Grettir’s Saga_ , and we get into an animated discussion of Norse mythology that must be incomprehensible to the people around us.

            Somewhere around Euston, Scorpius starts talking about the need for an advocacy group lobbying for affordable magical housing. “Someone has to hold the Ministry accountable for all these short sighted decisions,” he says, his frown somehow adorable.

            Vehemently, I say, “You would be _brilliant_ at that.” I didn’t know I could sound that earnest. Scorpius hems and haws and denies that he would ever leave the Ministry, but I see his subtle blush.

            He walks me to St. Mungo’s, telling me some ridiculous story about leprechauns that has me trying not to cackle. He gives me a hug, same as he does every single time we part, saying loudly, “Have a good day at work, dear!” I shove him off, but I love it.

            I take my happiness with me up to the fifth floor, so pleased that I just say, “Be along in a minute!” when Suzette tries to corral me into her office for my shaming. That makes me even more lighthearted, and I nearly skip to my office.

            It’s all weirdly punctured when I see that sheet laying on my desk. I’d completely forgotten about Fatima Gundersen. Dropping my bag to the floor, I pick up the sheet.

            I’m probably overreacting. Just an insane Muggle who got lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your viewpoint. I copy the sheet, shoving it in a drawer, then go to face Suzette.

           

I don’t think about it again til Wednesday. I’ve miraculously finished all my work by 2 in the afternoon, and I don’t do well being idle for hours at a time.

            So I take the sheet out of the drawer.

           

Murray looks at me like I’ve lost my mind when I knock on his door. To be fair, I’ve never attempted to speak to him before. To be even more fair, just looking at his office gives me stress. There are sloppy piles on every surface and the air is thick with dust. I see a circular coffee stain on some poor unfortunate’s certificate of death.

            “May I—help you?” Murray says.

            “You see all the records from Security, right?”

            “I do.”

            “Do you remember, a few weeks back, a Muggle was brought in by aurors? That was a man, yeah?”

            Murray gazes at me, then gestures around himself in irritation. “Does it _look_ like I’ve gotten to a few weeks ago?”

            Ugh. I try not to let him see me shudder. “So the report would still be in here.”

            “If it exists, yes.” He goes back to work.

            “Can I have a look about?”

            “Suit yourself.”

           

Only deeply rooted veins of English civility keep Murray from throwing me out of his disaster zone. I immediately set about organizing everything, not paying him any attention when he asks what I’m doing. What does this man do all day? There are reports in here from last _June_. It makes my teeth hurt.

            I flick through sheet after sheet at breakneck speed with my wand. I have to get out of here. Just knowing that he’s going to mess it all up again is distressing.

            If only I had the time to really look at these records. Hospital security writes some incredibly detailed summaries of their encounters. It would be a nice change of pace to sit with all this for a few days. There are certainly some salacious stories here that I could make a few sickles off of.

            Alas, another time.

            It takes me nearly an hour before I find what I’m looking for. The name is familiar—Eric Golightly—and I skim over the one line summary that starts the report. ‘Aurors mistakenly bring in Muggle claiming to be a wizard.’

            I let all the other pages drift back down on their piles and hold up the sheet. “May I copy this?”

            Murray’s clearly desperate for me to leave him be, so he says, “Fine, fine.”

           

_March 29, 2030. Eric Golightly, aged 68, no fixed address. Aurors J. Palall and M. Thornbridge summoned to scene by F. Al-Haj. Mrs. Al-Haj stated that Mr. Golightly was acting erratically in Osterley Station. Aurors Palall and Thornbridge confirm that Mr. Golightly was loudly stating that Muggles had stolen his power while accosting the commuters. Mr. Golightly claimed to be a wizard. He stated that he had been panhandling outside Osterley Station the previous evening and that he was approached by a Muggle who offered to buy him a meal. Mr. Golightly stated that he followed the Muggle into an alley and lost consciousness. He claims that when he woke the next morning he had lost his magic. Mr. Golightly could offer no description of his alleged assailant. He stated repeatedly that ‘the man had no face.’ Aurors Palall and Thornbridge could neither confirm nor deny Mr. Golightly’s magical status. He displayed some awareness of the magical world but was unable to name the Minister for Magic or produce any evidence that he was a wizard or was descended from wizards. Aurors Palall and Thornbridge determined that Mr. Golightly should see a healer to determine his magical status._

_Mr. Golightly was registered at St. Mungo’s at 1435h March 29, 2030. He was placed in isolation after accosting several other patients. Hospital security relieved Aurors Palall and Thornbridge at 1505h. Aurors Palall and Thornbridge gave report to writer, Minder R. McCann, and departed. Writer observed that Mr. Golightly was highly agitated. Writer also observed that Mr. Golightly displayed paranoia and appeared to be hallucinating, though patient denied same. Mr. Golightly had to be briefly restrained when he became convinced writer was part of a conspiracy to persecute him. Several times, Mr. Golightly attempted to perform magic on writer, but writer observed that Mr. Golightly was unable to perform any magic._

_Mr. Golightly was assessed by Healer P. Drood. It was determined that Mr. Golightly was a Muggle. Healer Drood determined that Mr. Golightly did not possess even trace magic, ruling out all likelihood that Mr. Golightly was a Squib. Upon receiving Healer Drood’s assessment, Mr. Golightly grew highly agitated. He stated that he had been born at St. Mungo’s. When Healer Drood informed him that was impossible, Mr. Golightly attacked Healer Drood. Writer intercepted Mr. Golightly before physical harm could be done to Healer Drood. Mr. Golightly then became violent and both Healer Drood and writer were compelled to incapacitate him. While Mr. Golightly was incapacitated, writer performed memory modification on him. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was informed and at 1830h Aurors C. Cuartero and V. Spreeling assumed care of Mr. Golightly to return him to Osterley Station. Mr. Golightly was discharged at 1840h._

_Recommendations: None. Per guidelines, if aurors are unsure of an injured person’s magical status, they are obligated to present them to St. Mungo’s. Per Ministry ruling 18109.37, magic users may use magic against Muggles if there is threat of imminent harm to a magic user. Per St. Mungo’s guidelines, if it is determined that a patient is a Muggle, they must have their memories modified and be returned to their place of origin._

_This report is submitted March 31, 2030._

_Rupert McCann, Minder (2 nd Class)_

This is…fucking peculiar.

            I’m sitting behind my desk with Golightly’s report in my hand. I pick up Gundersen’s admission package. It’s like looking at a warped mirror.

            Even though Gundersen’s doesn’t have the details of the security report, there are some uncanny similarities. Both elderly, homeless, mentally ill. Both Muggles, not Squibs. Both had their memories wiped and sent back out into the world, hypothetically none the wiser.

            I have a difficult time believing in coincidence. I’m a data miner. Look hard enough, you see patterns emerge.

            There are differences, though. One a woman, the other a man. One came in of her own volition, the other by Aurors. They live in different cities. One says a Muggle was responsible, the other a dragon. Theoretically, it could just be chance. Similar stories, not identical. And so far as I can tell, Golightly hasn’t returned. If he really believed he was a wizard, he would have come back to the hospital. I’ll have to wait and see if Gundersen tries again. She already made the journey once from Bracknell.               

            Still. Something about it feels wrong. Having stories so similar happen this close together?

            What if they’re the only ones who made it as far as St. Mungo?

            The thought gives me pause. Golightly and Gundersen knew enough about magic to get here, but what if there were others who didn’t?

            My first thought is that this is Muggle baiting. This seems like some mean spirited wizard who heard a homeless person on the street raving about magic and thought it would be cute to play a trick. It’s not cute, it’s reprehensible. I know enough about the homeless through Scorpius to get quite irritated by this.

            Not that anyone cares about my intuitions. I’m quite aware that I have no data to back up my suspicions. I know that I’m not exactly consistent. I’m obsessed by information, but if I believe something it’s near impossible to shake my opinion, regardless of evidence.

            I certainly don’t believe that they were actually a witch and wizard. That would be preposterous. There’s no way to strip someone of their magic. It’s just not possible. You might as well say you stole someone’s nervous system.

            Rapping my fingers on the desk, I re-skim the security report. Golightly said he was born at St. Mungo’s. They didn’t bother to check. They just dismissed him as a crazy Muggle and kicked him back out on the streets.

            That’s what bothers me. How cavalierly everyone in charge treated them. As soon as they figured out they were Muggles, that they were homeless, mentally ill, everyone ceased to give a shit. That gets on my nerves. These people are supposed to be helping, not refusing to assist the ill.

            This just confirms my distrust of authority figures.

            I glance at the clock. 4:15. There’s still 45 minutes to kill.

            Sod it. I might as take five minutes to accomplish what everyone else couldn’t be arsed to do.

           

I drop in on Carmen in Documents. She’s responsible for issuing birth certificates, so I assume she must have some kind of access to the birth registrars.

            “Why do you need _that_?” she asks, affronted.

            I arch a brow. “Births are a matter of public record, aren’t they?”

            “With the proper application—”

            “Spare me the Kafka-esque histrionics. How can I look at the hospital’s birth records for 1961-64?”

            It looks like Carmen is trying to suck her nose back into her brain. Composing herself, Carmen sniffs, “You can apply just like anyone else.”

            “Merlin’s beard. How long will that take?”

            With some satisfaction, Carmen answers, “I approve or decline all requests.”

            So go fuck myself, in other words.

 

After leaving Carmen’s office, I’m unsure where to go next. I pass Nadine’s desk. She doesn’t spare me a glance, clacking away at her bubbling typewriter.

            On second thought, I turn back. I try to form a plan of action. People say you get further with honey than vinegar. I’ll only seem disingenuous, thought. To hell with it, I’ll wing it.

            Patting my hands on the top of her high desk, I say, “Nadine.” She raises purple eyes over her rhinestone glasses. “What’s the most efficient way to gain access to St. Mungo’s birth records?”

            Pushing the typewriter aside with a cheerful _bing_ , Nadine picks up a quill and piece of paper. “Which years?” she asks in her flat, nasal voice.

            Good grief. I should come to her for everything. Relaxing, I answer, “1961-4.”

            Her quill hovers above the page. I wait for her to write, or ask a question. But she does nothing. A few seconds pass, and Nadine looks up at me again.

            Faltering, I say, “What?”

            “Albus.”

            Pursing my mouth, I take a moment to prepare myself. That doesn’t work, so I just turn around.

            Suzette smiles at me, gesturing down the hallway. “Could you come to my office?”

           

The office walls are mauve. It’s dark. Suzette has the best view in all of St. Mungo’s, but she always keeps the shades pulled halfway down. Kind of a fuck you to all the little people who would kill for that view. There are no stacks of paper. No work that I can see. I’m not exactly sure what Suzette does, beyond terrorizing her employees. There’s a certificate on the wall thanking her for twenty years of service and two photographs. One is of Suzette and an ugly greyhound; the other is her shaking hands with the current Minister.

            I sit in a very odd chair. It seems comfortable, but every time I twitch it lets out a series of creaks. There’s a cup of tea in front of me, but I’ve been told it’s herbal, and if it’s uncaffeinated, what’s the point?

            Suzette takes a seat behind her desk. Her chair certainly doesn’t creak. Her sickly smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

            “Would you like to tell me why you’ve spent all afternoon distracting your coworkers?”

            They’re not my coworkers, point of fact, but perhaps I should try and be a little less combative. “I popped in on Carmen for two minutes. Murray seemed to have no issues with my presence.”

            “Perhaps you should learn to read the room a touch more, Albus. Murray was very upset you disrupted him. He has quite a lot of work to do.”

            “I’m aware. He’s let everything pile up since last June, so I think that reflects on how serious Murray is about doing any real work.”

            “Instead of criticizing your colleagues, perhaps you should pay more attention to your own work.”

            “I completed all my work for the day.”

            “Then your interrupting everyone was unrelated to work?”

            “Well—not exactly.”

            Suzette folds her hands together. “Do you need something, Albus? Perhaps I can assist.”

            Perhaps rainbows will shine from my anus. But she is head of the department. If anyone had immediate access, it would be her. She’d lord it over me endlessly, but at least I can try.

            Cautiously, I say, “I’d like to look at some of St. Mungo’s birth records.”

            “Whatever for?”

            “I…want to verify some information.”

            “You’ll have to be more specific than that, Albus.”

            Taking a deep breath, I pull my wand from my pocket. Pointing it at the door, I say, “ _Accio_ Golightly and Gundersen.” They come sailing through the air ten seconds later. I catch them from the air and set them on the desk. “I just wanted to confirm if Mr. Golightly was born here.”

            Suzette picks up the pages and begins reading. I brace myself. I don’t know what to expect. Will she take the piss or actually listen to me for once? Maybe she’ll see what I saw. It is weird. She’s been in this business nearly as long as I’ve existed. She must be able to see the patterns.

            A smile begins spreading across her face. She’s amused. And I feel like an idiot.

            Suzette looks at me from beneath her brows. “You think these Muggles actually lost their magic?”

            “No!” I protest. “No, of course not. But—”

            “You can’t possibly have this much time on your hands.”

            “It’s—I had some free time.” Her smile is morphing into a smirk and for some reason I feel like I need to defend myself. “Of course I think they’re Muggles, but no one even checked the birth registrar to confirm if they were born to magical families or not. Healers make mistakes sometimes. It would have been the flip of a page to prove or disprove.”

            “So the healers misdiagnosed them as Muggles.”

            She wants to laugh at me. “Maybe they’re Squibs—it’s not like this hospital bothers with them.”

            Sighing, Suzette says, “Again with the Squibs. Albus, no one here has a problem with Squibs—”

            “There’s not a single Squib employee at St. Mungo’s, not even janitorial—this is off topic. I’m not saying they’re magic or Squib or Muggle, I just think that someone should check the records—”

            “And how does that relate to your job?” Frustrated, I don’t reply. I don’t have an answer. Suzette keeps pressing. “You think St. Mungo’s should just grant you access to patient information to satisfy your curiosity? Do you not see anything wrong with that?”

            Embarrassed, I say, “That’s not—I’m not trying to—”

            “But you are. You’re bored, so you’ve found yourself a distraction, and now you’re interrupting everyone else’s work. We are not here to amuse you. Perhaps you think this work is beneath you, but it matters a great deal to the people who work here.”

            “I—I never—”

            “I won’t have you disrupt the workday just to distract yourself, and I can’t allow you to abuse patient confidentiality. Can you honestly give me a reason why you should be allowed access to the birth registrar? Some reason that actually pertains to the task you’re here for?”

            I say nothing. My cheeks and ears are on fire.

            Suzette leans forward, face filled with faux concern. “Do you understand how important patient confidentiality is? Truly? Trust is the bedrock of our profession. Do you think patients would come to a facility where anyone can just peruse their health records?”

            Quietly, I say, “I’m not asking for confidential information.”

            Ignoring my, Suzette continues, “No one would come to St. Mungo’s. Not if anyone could see their personal information. Why, what if someone tried to sell that information to the highest bidder?”

            Shit. She knows. She’s trying to look innocent, but she _knows_.

            “The slightest error can do irreparable damage to a reputation,” Suzette says, enjoying this far too much. “People don’t always consider the consequences of such a slip. I’d go so far as to say it could ruin lives. Destroy careers. Do you not agree?”

            I make a sound from the back of my throat.

            Suzette sits back, so very very pleased with herself. “I’d like to remind you that you’re under contract to keep all information you learn at St. Mungo’s confidential or risk a criminal record. In your case, I imagine that would live on in the papers for quite some time, so let’s forestall that, shall we? You would need permission to request that the confidentiality clause be lifted, and that would have to be approved by me. For your own good, I would have to deny that request. You show promise, Albus, but you make choices that aren’t good for the team. You need to really think about that. Will you?”

            I’m seething so hard that I can only grunt.

            “I’ll be sure to remind everyone here and at the archives about the importance of going through the proper channels to request records, as well as making sure only the proper people are requesting information related to the job before them. Just a reminder so we all know what to do if anyone wants to—” She titters. “Go rogue. Now—do you understand everything I’ve just said, Albus?” I cough a little. Suzette’s smile is hard as diamonds. “I want to hear you say that you understand.”

            Strained, I manage to push out, “I understand.”

            “Good!” Suzette says brightly. “If there was nothing else, you should head home for the day. Try and use the extra time to really think over what we’ve discussed.”

            She gazes at me in expectation. I put my hands on the arms of the chair, needing them to push myself up. My body feels like straight lines that don’t know how to work in tandem with one another. Turning, I stride out of the room, every inch of my being burning with humiliation.

            I need to get _drunk_.

 

Three hours later and I’m drunk.

            Not the kind of drunk that’s fun. That’s the kind of drunk where I go out to dance. God, I love to dance. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I can dance. Any time a new club opens anywhere in the Isles, you’ll find me there on the dance floor. I dance with absolute abandon. If I’d been a Muggle, I would have been a dancer.

            What was I saying?

            I’m drunk. Ugly drunk in a pub on Diagon. I could have gone to a Muggle pub but I wanted firewhisky. Can’t get firewhisky from Muggles.

            You can get absinthe from Muggles, though. Absinthe is brilliant. You get weird pissed on absinthe.

            I’m under a disillusionment charm, so no one is harassing me. Oh, won’t you talk to your father? Can you ask your father this for me? They never ask about my mother, who’s Britain’s greatest living athlete. Just Harry, Harry, Harry. The world is fucking obsessed with a man who hasn’t done anything useful in thirty years.

            Welcome, everyone, to Harry Potter Day. As you know, I’m the middle child who disappointed everyone early on, and that’s what really counts. It doesn’t matter if you’re a drug addict who stole from your grandparents during a funeral, or an idiot auror who got a woman killed. No, what really matters is being put in Slytherin. The _shame_. And I’m here as the designated black sheep to tell you all about my blessed father. The chosen one. Let me tell you why he slept on the sofa for a year, shall I? Let me tell you all the really dark secrets. Because they’re there and I know everything.

            I forget nothing and forgive nothing. That’s my superpower.

            People in the corner laugh loudly. The place isn’t full but close. I’m around the side of the bar, nursing my—fourth glass? I’m hunched over the counter like a proper alcoholic, focusing on my drink and not much else. At least it’s not that loud in here. If it was, I would muffliato the lot. See how they like it.

            Show initiative, Albus. You have so much promise, why don’t you make a little effort? If only you tried to stretch yourself. No, not like that. Get back in your cave, you fucking brown little gremlin. Get back where you belong, you fucking toad.

            I am so irate. I burn and boil with thwarted rage. The firewhisky has dulled it but hasn’t extinguished it. Of course it wouldn’t, alcohol is an accelerant.

            I do think I’m better than all of them, because I am. I’m smarter than the lot of them by a fair shot. I don’t let myself be bossed about by some middle aged martinet whose sole claim to fame is that she was never able to rise higher than the records department.

            Oh, but she bossed you about, boy. You put your tail between your legs and let her walk all over you.

            She could have had me arrested.

            It’s not my fault. Fucking _Lily_.

            I run my hands over my face. They’re clammy. I’m disgusting. I’m going to die alone. I’ll never be married, never have children.

            Thank Merlin. Imagine me trying to parent. I’m a self centered, self justifying, negative, ugly prick. The only thing I’d ever teach a child would be to hate me and themselves. I _should_ die alone.

            I pick up my glass and empty the last mouthful into my gullet. Tapping the glass on the counter, I startle the bartender. I point to the glass and say, “Another.”

            He looks reluctant, but he picks up the bottle and refills the glass. “Last one.”

            He tries to only give me half a glass, but I growl, “Then fill it to the top.” He hesitates. Rolling my eyes, I take out a handful of galleons and slam them on the bar. I shove them towards him, settling up my bill. The bartender frowns, but fills my glass all the way.

            I’m drinking on an empty stomach, which is never a good idea. I’m feeling it more than I usually would. I can even go glass for glass with Hugo, who’s drunk concentrated fara wine on Everest. Hugo. He’s a good fellow. I love Hugo. I wish I could be like Hugo. Likeable. Lovable. Everyone loves Hugo. No one loves me.

            I’ll make myself sick with this self pity. Oh, poor Albus. Grew up with a family, got an education, has a steady job, gets as much dick as he can stand. You’re so neglected and unfortunate. Boo hoo. You fucking pathetic tit.

            I gulp down a mouthful to try and mute the voice. All I do is burn my throat and add fuel to the resentment boiling in my belly.

            What did I think I was doing, really? That I’d found some poor Muggles who were mistreated and was going to do what? Save the day? Make things better? I don’t make things better. I just turn over rocks for my own amusement and sell the disgusting things underneath to whoever wants them. I’m not a hero. I lack a moral center. I’m a real piece of shit.

            I’m hurting myself. I press the glass to my forehead, closing my eyes. The glass is a little cold. It feels good.

            I wish I had someone to take care of me. I’ve been on my own since I was eleven. As soon as I was put in Slytherin, everyone washed their hands of me.

            Not Scorpius. I love Scorpius so much. I ache with how much I love him. He’s so good to me. I’d do anything for him, give anything for him. Scorpius is my one good thing.

            I can’t have Scorpius. Not in the way that would make all of this hurt less. He’s my friend. How is that supposed to be enough? With how much I love him?

            It has to be enough. It’s all I’ll ever get.

            Opening my eyes, I take another quick sip. I don’t know what to do. I have so much anger. How am I supposed to live with this?

            The door to the pub opens, bringing noise. I cringe at the laughter, the good cheer the group exudes. The last thing I need right now is someone trying to be happy near my black cloud. Can I not just brood in peace?

            I know that laugh. I haven’t heard it in forever, but I know it.

            Rose is in the middle of a small group of junior ministers. I know all of them. They were part of her cabal at Hogwarts and now they’re all conservative pieces of shit for the Ministry. They walk in like they own the place, laughing and clearly celebrating something. I dread whatever these bastards have to celebrate.

            Rupert Gleestrum raises a hand, yelling to the bartender, “Six pints of your best!” They settle in a booth across the bar from me, all of them young and attractive and set on destroying the world.

            I watch Rose.

            She’s straightened her hair until it shines. She wears a perfectly tailored set of robes that’s both professional but a touch sexy, which makes me want to vomit. She looks like Hugo, but with all the kindness stripped away.

            And she has the audacity to look happy. Rose is smiling, over the moon about something. I don’t remember the last time I saw her look so free. She’s always sour, distracted, uninterested in the people around her. She’s miserable at every single family gathering.

            But here she is, laughing and pleased and light as a feather.

            Everyone is settling in, but then they put up a cheer as someone else walks in. Nimue’s tits, it’s the Education Minister, Erebus Scrum. He’s fifteen years older than the rest of them but dresses younger than he is. His smile shows off the gold tooth in his mouth, which infuriates me. Rose grins when he sits down next to her, saying something quietly to him which makes him laugh. She slips a hand under the table, and he starts, then smirks.

            My hands hurt. I look down and realize that I’ve clenched them so tightly that my knuckles are going pale. Releasing them, I twitch my fingers to try and get the cramps out.

            It’s none of my concern. The whole stupid lot of them. If they want to drink and carouse and congratulate themselves for being pricks, that’s their prerogative. It has nothing to do with me.

            It has _everything_ to do with me.

            “To Rose!”

            Scrum has lifted his glass. The others do the same. Rose is beaming at him, trying to look bashful.

            Warmly, Scrum says, “We’re one step closer to passing our bill, thanks entirely to her tenaciousness. Rose proves every day that you don’t need to sacrifice principles for success. She’s a credit to the Ministry. I’m not just saying this because she’ll be running the place in a few years.” Everyone chuckles and he raises his glass high. “To Rose!”

            “To Rose!” they shout, and they are so pleased with her and themselves and the world they’re trying to make. To unmake.

            I slip off the stool and my knees don’t lock at first. I catch myself. The world is a touch off kilter, but I can still walk. I pick up my glass and walk across the pub.

            Rose is leaned forward as Scrum speaks directly into her ear. Her expression is one of joy.

            I stop a few steps from their table and raise my glass. “To Rose.”

            Everyone looks up at me. It’s Rose I’m looking at, though. The happiness drains from her face, replaced by wariness. Her eyes go cold. Good.

            Lifting my glass higher, I say, “To Rose—top of her class, one of the youngest junior ministers in Ministry history, one of the rising stars of our government. To Rose, who learned quickly to jettison anyone who wasn’t useful to her. To Rose, the daughter of one of the greatest Ministers in living memory. To Rose, who was so desperate to step out of her mother’s shadow that she advocated stripping orphans of money, denying education to magical creatures, and creating a lower class of magical people. To Rose, who puked every morning before work because she was so disgusted with herself. To Rose, who stopped puking when she realized how much power these reprehensible laws gave her.”

            One of them says, “Listen, mate—”

            “Tom,” Rose hisses. She knows. She knows that she can’t make a fuss.

            Making my voice even louder, I continue, “To Rose, who had the love of a man who worshipped the ground she walked on, a man who forgave her all her flaws, who would have died for her. To Rose, who cast that man aside because he didn’t have political use. To Rose, who threw away love so that she could give her boss hand jobs under the table at the pub in front of her minions.”

            Scrum tries to shoot to his feet, but Rose grabs him and keeps him in his seat. “Don’t,” she warns. Because Rose knows what I know. Regardless of how the world sees me, it won’t go well for them if the Minister for Education thrashes Harry Potter’s son in a pub.

            Gazing right in her eyes, I say to my cousin, “To Rose, who was supposed to be the best of us, but somehow, miraculously, unexpectedly, became the worst.”

            I lift the glass to my lips and take the firewhisky into my mouth. The room is silent. Instead of swallowing, I spit the firewhisky on the floor at their feet, like I’m some Muggle fairy-tale witch casting a curse.

            They all jerk back, but I’m already turning away. Heading towards the door, I drop my glass on a table. Everyone is looking at me. They’re murmuring among themselves, probably about what a travesty I am, but I could give a shit. I finally feel at least a little bit better, like I’ve swept out some of my anger.

            The air outside is beautifully cool. I put my arms over my head, stretching, then rub at my eyes. I need to get home. I’m too drunk to apparate. I could take the train up to Bedford. I’d get home in about two hours. That sounds like a lot of time, but I can pass out on the train. I turn to my left and head to the Leaky Cauldron.

            There’s not too many people out tonight—what the hell is there to do on a Wednesday—and I try not to think about them. I don’t want to know what they think or feel. I’m sure they’re all terrible. People are the worst.

            I walk through the Leaky Cauldron, brushing off some old drunk who gets up, saying something about Dad. Better that no one try to stop me right now.

            I come out on Charing Cross Road, formulating a plan on how to get to the train station. Get a taxi. Yes. Best option in my state.

            “Hey!”

            I barely glance back. “Fuck off back to your married boyfriend, you twit.”

            Rose’s sharp heels click menacingly against the sidewalk as she jogs after me. I find I don’t really care if she catches up or not. I don’t really care what she has to say. I’m sure it will be pointedly hurtful, but I feel like I already won that award for the night, and I already know I’m a bad person, so how terribly can she wound me?

            I look down the street for a taxi. There’s one coming. I raise my hand.

            Rose grabs me and turns me around. “What the _hell_ are you playing at?” she yells.

            “Oh please. You don’t care if you defund education for magical orphans, you certainly don’t care if I point it out in front of a crowd.”

            “You sanctimonious fuck,” Rose cries out, and I smile at that a little, wavering on my feet. “How dare you. You, who’s never tried to help a single person in your life unless it benefited you. You think you’re going to stand there and judge me?”

            “Yeah, I do.”

            “Fuck you, Albus! How dare you do that to me? In front of all those people!”

            I roll my eyes. “Just give Erebus a suck in a dark corner and he’ll forget whatever discomfort I’ve caused.”

            Rose shakes her head at me, incredulous. “You don’t get to pass judgment on me—”

            “I do. You’re a shitty politician, doing a really shitty job. As a citizen, it’s my God-given right to judge you. Are you offended, Rose? Do the opinions of the little people bother you?”

            “You’re jealous,” she says, and I laugh. “You’ve always been jealous! You never had the courage to go after anything you believed in, not that you’ve ever believed in anything, and so you try to make yourself feel better by tearing down the people around you. Does that make you feel better, Al? Does it make you feel good?”

            “Yes, actually.”

            Disgusted, Rose turns away from me. She stands there shaking her head while I look for another cab. I should get in fights more when I’m drunk. It doesn’t seem to hurt as much.

            Rose turns back to me, trying not to make fists. I wonder if I could push her that far, to make her punch me. “This is about Scorpius, isn’t it?” I snort and Rose nods. “It’s always about him with you, always, as if what was between me and him has anything to do with you!”

            “Are you done? I’m bored.”

            “You think you can use what he and I had against me? You know nothing about what happened between us! You want to stand there and think, oh, evil Rose, power hungry Rose, she’s responsible for things not working out, poor sweet Scorpius must be completely blameless—you know nothing, Albus. You, who can’t find a single person to fuck you who’d stick around for more than an hour, you think you know what goes into a relationship? You know nothing whatsoever!”

            Unmoved, I say, “Does it feel good, Rose? Knowing no one will ever love you enough to believe the best in you? Because you had that and pissed it all away, you selfish cow.”

            Rose screams, “He will _never_ love you! This sick, weird obsession you’ve always had with him, it’s pathetic and sad and _small_ and you know it, and you want to take that out on me? You know what, Albus? Anyone else, they’d be happy he and I broke up. They’d harbour some secret fantasy about snapping Scorpius up and living happily after, but not you. No, you know what a useless, terrible person you are. You know that even if he slept with men, which he doesn’t, the thought of being with you wouldn’t even cross his mind because everyone knows how terrible you are. And you _know_ that, Albus. You know that.”

            It takes me a second to reply. It takes me a second because I don’t feel like fighting anymore. I just want this to be over. So I tell her the truth.

            “You were supposed to be better than this, Rose,” I say quietly. “Everyone knew I would never amount to much, but you? We couldn’t wait to see the amazing things you’d do. We loved you so much, because you were going to make everything better. But all you’ve ever done is make the world a worse place. The world is worse off because you’re in it.”

            She gazes up at me, looking about fifteen years younger. I remember that when we little, she and I were best friends. We were best friends until Scorpius showed up, and I finally saw what Rose was really like.

            I see a taxi coming, and put up my hand. It slows to a stop beside us. Rose doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, as I get in the car. It feels like things are broken. That’s fine. They usually are.

 

I walk up to my front door. As expected, it’s two hours later. I have sobered up ever so slightly. It helped that I vomited on the train. I tried to vanish it, but I left a very noticeable stain.

            That’s me. Clean up one mess and leave another.

            I’ll get into my beautiful home, and take hangover potion before falling asleep, and tomorrow I will go back to work and just get on with my life. I’ll organize the data and stay in my lane and not worry about things that don’t concern me.

            I unlock the gate, making sure to shut it behind myself. Then I forget if I locked it and double check. It seems fine. I tug on it several times to make sure. I am secure behind my high fence. Locked away from the world behind the shrubbery and bricks.

            I walk up to the door, thinking vaguely of what might happen tomorrow. Someone will certainly have noticed that I publicly humiliated my cousin. On Diagon. I laugh thinking about it. I’ve really fucked up this time. Classic me.

            There’s an envelope stuck to my door. It’s periwinkle. At least it’s not a howler. I’ll probably see a few of those over the next few days.

            Tugging it off the door, I let myself in. The lights turn on, and Zamora is waiting to be picked up. “Just a second, love, just a second. I have quite the story to tell you. You’ll be scandalized.”

            I fumble with the envelope. I have drunk fingers. I manage to crack it, and pull out the note inside. It’s just a small card, written on in purple ink. The writing is thin and elegant, not the penmanship of anyone young. It says:

            _St. Mungo’s birth records from 1960-70 were stolen in January. The administration will deny if you ask. Proceed with caution._

            I stare at it a moment, then I tip the envelope upside down. A single rhinestone falls onto my hand.


	6. Chapter 6

When I wake up to the sound of owls beating at my windows, I groan, “Fuck.” Which is the most appropriate word for the situation.

            I corral them all into the backyard, yelling for them to drop the letters on the lawn. I recognize nearly all of them. There’s Dad’s owl, and Aunt Hermione’s, and Tim’s, and that big ugly bastard from the Prophet. The large black one, I’ve never seen before, but it’s wearing a St. Mungo’s collar, so that’s alarming. They drop their letters, then swoop away.

            I snatch up the one from St. Mungo’s, and incinerate all the others with my wand. They can’t exactly fire me, but I imagine I’m treading on thin ice after yesterday. I pull out the letter inside.

            ‘Albus. Please refrain from coming to work for the rest of the week. The hospital is beset by reporters and St. Mungo’s does not wish to be involved any more than necessary. Your work will be waiting for you on Monday. Suzette.’

            Damn it. That will be four days of reports waiting for me, including the weekend, when things are at the worst. But it’s my fault. I don’t want to go where the reporters are either. So I need to just pull up my big boy pants and accept the tsunami that will be waiting for me next week.

            I yelp. I’ve been pecked on the ankle. Aedesia bobbles on the ground, sticking out her leg stubbornly.

            I just…cannot deal with Scorpius today. “Stay where you are,” I command, then go inside to get a paper and pen.

            When I come back, Zamora is at the open doorway, hissing at Aedesia. The owl is flapping her wings, hooting worriedly.

            “Good girl,” I tell the cat, then sit on the ground. I write, ‘Aedesia lost your message on the way here. Typical! Won’t be around for lunch the next few days, feeling unwell and staying home. Don’t get too bored without me!’

            I trade out the messages. Aedesia doesn’t wait for treats, just lifts off into the sky before Zamora can attack. My girl always protects me.

            I’m left with Scorpius’ message. Without bothering to unfold it, I light it on fire.

 

I sit at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a few strips of vegan bacon. It doesn’t taste like the real thing, but the real thing is made of dead animal, so I make do.

            So there’s a conspiracy.

            No, there is no such thing.

            Well, point of fact there is. Nadine paused when I asked about those years. She wanted to tell me, but Suzette caught on and stopped her. Cheers to Nadine for not putting up with that shit. She’s my new favourite St. Mungo’s employee.

            Ten years worth of records. That would include birth records for Gundersen and Golightly. If they had no other dealings with St. Mungo’s, there would at least be that. But it’s gone. The only other way to confirm if they were from magical families would be the census, but that’s under lock at the Ministry. I have no way to access that.

            Dad would.

            I grunt, not liking the sound of that. Dad could get a hold of anything. He’s not only Harry Potter, he’s Minister for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He basically has carte blanche.

            That would mean asking him, though. It would mean being indebted to him.

            Not really. I could tell him we’re square for Harry Potter Day.

            Why am I getting involved in this? It has nothing to do with me.

            It’s because I’m bored. I’m good at my job, but I know why I’m there. I’m petty, and I know the world, my family, expects me to be brilliant and ambitious, to live up to my heritage, and I’m refusing out of spite. I could do great things. I choose not to. I’m contrary.

            The worst thing Suzette could have done was give me two extra days to dwell on this. It will eat at me unless I know either way. I just can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong about it.

            I drop my head back on my shoulders, letting out a long, frustrated moan. I’m going to do it. Fuck it. I’ve already shown I don’t have a problem making an ass of myself in public.

            I go and change out of my pajamas into jeans and a jumper, then light the fireplace. Sitting on the ground, I brace myself, then throw powder at the fire.

            “Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” I say firmly. “Reception.”

            The fires flare purple, and I can suddenly see a man sitting behind a desk. He’s wearing auror colours, but in a Muggle suit. He’s an admin, and I don’t know him. Probably because I haven’t stepped foot in the Department in years.

            “Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he says sunnily. “I’m Assistant to the Department Springstep. How may I help you?”

            This feels wrong, but I need to try. Pretending to be more confident than I am, I say, “I was wondering if I could speak to my father.”

            “Who’s your father?”

            “Harry Potter.”

            Springstep pauses, and squints his eyes at me. I don’t really look like Dad, not like James does. Especially since I changed my eye colour. I try not to squirm.

            Springstep loses a lot of his friendliness. Folding his hands together, he says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. The Minister is unavailable unless by appointment.”

            He’s my _father_. “Is there any way you could—ask if he’d make an exception?”

            “The Minister is in a meeting right now. I’m afraid he can’t be interrupted.”

            Of course. This is what happens if you don’t spend every spare second kissing my father’s arse. You have to put up with his underling’s condescension.

            “Would you like to leave a message?” Springstep asks. I think he suddenly remembered that if I complain to Dad, he’ll lose his job.

            All of a sudden, I realize this is pointless. Dad’s not going to help me. “No. No, thank you.”

            I cut him off in the middle of saying goodbye, using my wand to put out the fire.

            Well, I feel stupid. I should have known better.

            I don’t know how to investigate. None of my friends are in that line of work, so I can’t harass them for ideas. I’d only be going off what I’ve learned from books, and who knows what sort of trouble that would get me into.

            I do know one other auror.

            How badly do I really need to know?

 

I stare dolefully at the doorbell for a long stretch. Once I manage to beat down the worst of the doubts for a few seconds, I jab at it, stepping back.

            When I hear footsteps, I very seriously consider apparating home. I don’t really need to solve this mystery. I need to hide from the world until they all forget I exist.

            My brother opens the door and freezes in place. We just sort of stare at one another.

            Cocking his head, James said, “I didn’t think you knew where I live.”

            “I asked Granddad.”

            He does not look good. He’s greyish and his hair is unwashed. It’s ten in the morning on a Thursday, and he’s still in his pajamas. His shirt has a hole in it.

            I can see his stump barely sticking out from his sleeve. I don’t make direct eye contact with it. Last time I saw it was at the hospital, when it was still purple and black.

            Inhaling, I say, “I think we both doubted that I would ever say this, and I can’t imagine I’m the family favourite this morning, but—I need a favour.” I cringe, waiting for him to laugh at me and throw me over the balcony.

            James does not pitch me four storeys to my death. He studies me a moment, and then—shockingly—he steps back from the door, so I can walk inside if I like. “You timed this well. It’s the rare occasion where I’m actually impressed with you.”

            Hesitantly, I step over the threshold and into my brother’s flat for the first time. The smell hits me almost immediately. Body odour and food just starting to rot. The urge to say something is near unbearable, but I have to remember that I’m here for help. I can’t alienate him when I need something.

            James brushes past me, walking down the hall. I follow, swallowing against the rancid taste in my mouth. He leads me into the kitchen, where the dishes are predictably piled up in the sink and there’s grime in every corner. “Sit,” he says, going to the cupboards.

            I’d rather not. It’s a nice building. The kind of flat a man buys when he’s an auror on the rise. But it’s starting to look like some of the places we’d drag Lily out of before I stopped caring. I pull out a chair, then force myself to sit without looking at what might be on the seat.

            James fills up a mug under the tap. “Heard from Mum and Dad today?”

            “Dad sent Switchley, but I burned the message.”

            He snorts. “I got a visit from Switchley as well. Said that reporters might be circling about because of you, but didn’t say why. I assume he knew I still get the _Prophet_.” James glances back at me. “Did you see the _Prophet_?”

            “I don’t read that stodgy old thing,” I say, wary.

            James smirks, throwing a tea bag into each mug. “Been awhile since you’ve had your face on page one.”

            “It’s not page one.”

            “Oh, it certainly is, little brother.”

            “Does the world not have better things to do?”

            “Apparently not, if they’re resorting to your temper tantrums and our hypocrite of a cousin.” James turns, stretching his arm towards the other rooms. “ _Accio_ wand.”

            I anticipate the sound of an object cutting through the air. There is none. I look up, but keep my mouth shut.

            Gritting his teeth, James repeats, “ _Accio_ wand!” Still, nothing happens. I studiously inspect my fingernails, waiting for him to blame me for this somehow. James lets out a sound of disgust, then brings me a mug of lukewarm water with a teabag in it. “You’ll have to heat it yourself,” he mutters, then goes to get his mug.

            I don’t take out my wand. I don’t intend to put my mouth on an unwashed cup, and he’ll probably throw something at my head if I offered to do his. James settles across the table from me, trying to stretch out. He only looks awkward.

            He takes a sip of his tea, just to prove a point. I’ve no idea what the point is. “They’re talking in the paper, you know. There was a poll. Rose’s likeability. Only 25% of Britain thinks she’s worth a damn.”

            “She’s a woman in politics. No one likes women in politics, because society is a bag of idiots.”

            “They loved Aunt Hermione.”

            “She’s a force of nature. Nothing Rose has ever done comes close.”

            “You pitching a fit, though. It has people saying things they weren’t before.”

            The idea somehow makes me uncomfortable. I’ve spent so long restraining myself when it came to Rose. Scorpius belonged to her. Even now, attacking her feels like attacking him.

            “Anyway,” I murmur. “I’ll tell you what I want, so I can piss off before you get sick of me.”

            “All right, though I can’t imagine what I could do for you.”

            “I have some questions and I’m hoping that you can answer as an auror.”

            His brow creases, but James says, “All right.”

            “If a homeless man claimed to be a wizard but seemed unable to perform magic, maybe because he was sick or insane or something else, and you weren’t able to perform any kind of spell to confirm it, how would you figure out if he really was a wizard?”

            James props his elbow on the table and puts the end of his thumb in his mouth, nibbling on it. It’s what he’s always done when he’s thinking. I’m not sure how it helps. “Do you mean what the official protocol is or what I’d do?”

            Oh, the desire to go off on James Potter, rogue auror, it is strong. But I need something. “Both.”

            “Officially? You do the Bacon-Woodrough Test. Do you know what that is?” I shake my head, and James explains, “You ask questions only a witch or wizard would know. What years they went to Hogwarts, Gamp’s Law, who the Minister for Magic is. It’s 10 or so questions.”

            “But if a person is mentally ill, how are they supposed to accurately answer? Particularly if they’re distressed.”

            “If they can’t, it’s up to the aurors to make a judgment call. If they think the person is credible for other reasons, they go in for questioning. If they’re some insane Muggle, it’s not their problem, and they move on. If they can’t figure it out either way? St. Mungo’s gets them. What is this about?”

            “Okay, that’s the official protocol. What would you do?”

            “That’s easy. Find next of kin.”

            “How do I do that?”

            “What are you trying to find next of kin for? What on earth has this to do with anything?”

            “Can we please just keep this in the hypothetical realm for now? If I needed to find next of kin for a homeless wizard who was mentally ill, how would I go about that?”

            James sighs, shrugging. His stump flops, and I’m momentarily queasy. I’m suddenly back in the hospital, standing over his hospital bed and screaming at his unconscious body, wanting to know why he was so fucking stupid. “You go through the Ministry. Seek access to the census. It takes a fucking ice age before you get a reply, but—honestly?”

            “You’d ask Dad and he’d push it through.”

            “Yeah, go ahead and act all superior, but waiting for things gets people killed. You have to take the initiative sometimes.”

            He keeps setting them up, almost like he wants me to take the bait. I’m not here to play, though. Maybe he has no idea how easy a target he is. “Ministry bureaucracy does leave something to be desired.”

            “You want to find out if this ‘hypothetical’ wizard has family, ask Dad.” I rub my eyes, trying not to groan, and James says, “What?”

            Dropping my hands, I say, “I tried that. He’s not accepting my calls.”

            James gazes at me, then says, “Let me get this straight. He _sent_ you a message, you burned it, and now you’re upset that you can’t get hold of him?”

            Blushing, I reply, “Shut it. I know I—listen, I don’t always think first. I know that. I’m just…I’m trying to figure this out.”

            Leaning forward, James asks, “Why? Who is this?”

            “What if the wizard had no next of kin? If he was the only person left in his family, or they had different last names? If he had no next of kin, what would you do next?”

            “You already know this. Find his birth records through St. Mungo. Even if someone’s Muggle born, they go back and add them. That should be easy enough for you to find.”

            Inhaling, I say, “What if someone had stolen those records?”

            James pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is far more serious. “Someone stole _his_ records?”

            “Or if someone had stolen ten years worth of records from St. Mungo’s, and the hospital and the Ministry were covering that up.”

            James is biting on his thumb now. “That’s…serious.”

            “It’s hypothetical.”

            “This hypothetical situation, with the records, you can confirm that?”

            “No. Hypothetically, say I tried to access those records to confirm someone’s birth, was denied for no reason, and then sent a hypothetical secret message telling me about the theft from someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”

            Sitting back, James says, “All right, enough. This is something entirely different. No more hypotheticals. You’re talking about hundreds of people having their information stolen, and that’s pretty bloody serious, Al.”

            “I’m not asking about the hundreds of people. I’m asking about one person—”

            “I’m not playing anymore. Tell me what’s going on.”

            He’s my brother. We don’t like one another, but we’re brothers. If I can’t at least try to trust him, then what’s the point? It takes more than he’ll ever know for me to say, “It’s not one person. It’s two. A witch and a wizard. Two weeks apart, they came into the hospital. He was brought in by aurors, she came in looking for help. The hospital denied them care.”

            “That makes no sense. St. Mungo’s isn’t in the habit of turning away witches and wizards. Point of fact, they keep people there a little too long, if you ask me. What was it about them?”

            Flexing my fingers, I say hesitantly, “The healers said they have no magic. They each…they each claimed that their magic had been stolen.”

            James gazes at me a moment.

            Then he slumps back in his seat, groaning with exasperation. “ _Al_.”

            “I know! I know, I’m not—listen, I know, it’s impossible, I’m not saying that they’re actually a witch and wizard. It’s just—I was thinking, what if they were Squibs—”

            “You actually had me worried for a moment. But this is nonsense.”

            “It’s not, their stories are so similar, and they happened so close together—”

            “They described the same assailant?”

            “Well—no—”

            “Get your head out of your arse. People can’t lose their magic. It’s not possible. Are you really that bored that you’re making up stories now?”

            “You don’t understand. I see so many records, so many reports—”

            “That you’re desperate for anything to excite yourself.”

            “No! I’m trying to tell you, I see so many records that I can spot where the patterns are. It happens, and that’s what’s happening here. I’m not making this up!”

            “Yeah, two people whose stories don’t match, that’s convincing.”

            “You’re not listening. They’re both homeless, mentally ill, they say that someone stole their powers, both times the healers checked them and found no trace of magic, but they knew about the magical world, _she_ knew enough to get inside St. Mungo’s, and their records? It’s just coincidence that someone stole ten years worth of records and their birth dates just happened to fall in that stretch?”

            James is looking at me in a way that I despise. A mixture of pity and condescension. “You think that someone stole ten years worth of records to hide the fact that they were messing with two crazy people after they stole those people’s magic. Really.”

            “No, I don’t, I just—no one bothered to check the records. There’s nothing in the reports about someone asking for the birth records and being denied. They didn’t bother. They decided they were infallible and threw them back on the streets without even being sure, and that makes me angry.”

            “So what?”

            “Pardon?”

            “I said so what. They knew what you obviously aren’t paying attention to. Some crazy Muggles got into St. Mungo’s and security put them back on the street. What do you think you could have done differently?”

            “I would have checked!”

            “And then what? What would you do about it? Al, all you do is mess about with papers in your safe little office. You’ve never given a shit about anyone, I don’t see why you’d start now.”

            “I’m allowed to be angry when people are mistreated.”

            “Really? If you’re so upset, you go out and be these Muggles’ best friend. Listen to their crazy stories and get up close and personal with their shit stink and cardboard boxes and use all this newfound empathy you’ve suddenly developed. All you’re trying to do is scratch an itch. You don’t care about these people. The second you get this glitch figured out, you’ll forget all about it. It’s naught to do with them.”

            I didn’t hear half of what he just said. Blinking at him, I say, “James, that’s the first good idea you’ve ever had in your life.”

            Screwing up his face, James says, “What?”

            Pushing myself up, I say, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You’re right, I spend too much time in the office; it’s dulling my senses. Take care of yourself. Have a shower or something.” As I pass, I impulsively kiss him on top of his head. “Thanks, James!”

            As I stride down the hall, I hear him say, “What?”

 

I’ve never been to Osterley Station before, but it’s actually quite nice. All the buildings in the area are made of brick, old fashioned and comfortable. The trees are turning green. Even the traffic along the A4 isn’t terrible.

            I stand on the sidewalk in front of the station, looking up at its relatively squat spire. There are a few people waiting for the bus, all with their mobiles or the paper, forming a loose queue. That’s the English for you. Even if there’s nothing to see, we’ll form a line for it.

            The thought of just going over and trying to broach conversation with any of them makes my skin crawl. The second most prominent rule of public transit: do not initiate any kind of meaningful conversation with strangers. Weather? Fine. Tittering over someone else’s breaking the rules? Expected. But just going over and chatting people up? No. Might as well be American.

            Instead of approaching anyone, I go inside the station. I have a quick look around. It’s well kept and there aren’t many people inside. I’ve come at a good time of day. Right away I can see that there’s no one using the station as a home. If Golightly was staying here, he’s not today.

            Nothing for it. I have to…speak to people.

            Nauseous, I walk out onto the platform. There’s half a dozen people milling around. Again, they’ve unconsciously formed a queue. At least they’re all in the same place so I only have to do this once.

            My hands are damp. I wipe them on my jeans, then clear my throat. No one so much as glances at me. Oh, I hate this. I cough, louder this time. Several of the people in the queue actually turn further away from me.

            Sod it.

            “Excuse me,” I say, only my voice is a few shades too high. I try again. “Excuse me—terribly sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but—I’m looking for someone who can usually be found around the station, and I was wondering if any of you might be familiar with him.”

            They look at me in curiosity. Like I’m some exotic species of insect.

            Well, they’re looking at me, so there’s no stopping now. “He’s homeless. Late sixties. Taller than I am, considerably more heavy set. White. A touch—not all there.”

            A man my age, wearing a tracksuit, head shaved, turns to me. I brace myself, wondering if he’s about to hurl racial epithets. “You mean the wizard?” he says incredulously.

            That makes things easier. “Yes. Yes, I mean…the wizard.”

            With a heavy northern accent, the man says, “You just missed ‘im. I saw ‘im pulling branches off the trees just over there.” He shucks his head back the way I came. “He took off east, waving a stick about.”

            Great. “What does he look like exactly?”

            “He’s a man waving a stick about, that’s what he looks like—”

            I put up my hands, saying, “Okay, thank you.”

            I walk back through the station and onto the street. A chill runs through me. It’s turning overcast. We might see rain. It’s London in April, so we’re certainly going to see rain. I cast a warming spell on myself, then start walking east along the A4.

            The white and brick homes that line the streets look welcoming. Not too different from the houses in my neighbourhood. Not exactly the kind of area you’d expect a homeless man to haunt. At least he’ll stick out, once I find him.

            _And what are you going to do once you find him?_

The actual fuck if I know. Maybe if I can talk to him for a few minutes, if I ask the right questions instead of trying to get rid of him, like the aurors did.

            Aurors are so useless. Stocked with people like my dad and brother. Act first, ask questions later, and if it’s not extremely exciting then just throw it back on the streets. Trigger happy and lacking in empathy. Like any other police force in the world. Any time someone comes along who tries to shake things up, they’re shown the door.

            Scorpius should have been a great auror. He was so set on it. He took all the right classes, studied for months for the entrance exam, lived and breathed it. I was even excited for him. All the problems I had with Dad and James as aurors, Scorpius could counter that. Someone compassionate, cerebral. Someone who would think about something before throwing a punch at it. Someone who actually wanted to help people instead of trying to chase an adrenaline high.

            He passed all the exams. He aced the exams, actually. He failed the interview with my father. Scorpius is such a good friend that he didn’t try to blame Dad for it. He tried to be kind about it, for my sake, but from everything he told me, Dad went into that meeting set on refusing Scorpius from the service. Because Scorpius is a Malfoy. And Malfoys aren’t allowed to be good.

            Fucking clueless prick.

            I wonder if Scorpius is upset with me. I’m a bit relieved to have a reason to avoid our lunches. Give it a few days to cool off. I don’t see how he could be all that angry with me. He’s been so good to me. It will blow over, I’m sure of it.

            What the fuck is that?

            I stop in my tracks. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I nearly passed the whole house. I look back over my shoulder, listening to the steady murmur coming from the alley. It makes my blood run cold.

            This probably wasn’t a good idea. It’s the afternoon on a Thursday, on a busy road, and I should be safe, but…but I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just decided this was a good idea, and that was hubris.

            I nearly walk away, but I picture James laughing at me. James, not how he is, but the cocksure auror, handsome and cruel, crowing over how he told me so. Grimacing, I straighten my shoulders, and retrace my steps to the top of the short alley.

            It’s not really an alley, more just the space between two houses, with a tall gate at the back. They keep the odds and ends there. Trash bins, a basket, nothing of value. Sitting against the gate, tucked up behind the bins, is an old man. He’s broad and big, with a bushy grey beard, and scraggly hair tucked under a knit cap. He rocks back and forth, a look of desperation on his face.

            He’s pointing a stick at his face and saying repeatedly, “ _Avada Kedavra._ _Avada Kedavra_.” He shakes the stick, as if it might just be malfunctioning, and demands with fright, “ _Avada Kedavra_.”

            I don’t do anything at first. What do I do?

            What you’re here for, you idiot.

            I force myself to say gently, “Eric?”

            Golightly looks up at me. He doesn’t seem surprised by my arrival. “It’s not working.”

            “It’s a stick.”

            “All wands start as sticks!” he yells, voice distressingly robust. I try not to fall back, reminding myself that there are people all around us. I can’t see them at the moment, but they’re there. Golightly stares at the short branch, shaking it. “Even my wand—acacia! Acacia and unicorn hair. Acacia only works for the owner. It’s tricky. You have to be special. That’s what Ollivander told me. When I was a boy, he said you have to be special for acacia, and the wand wanted me, so I must be special. He said I was special and so I was. They all said I would be special—and then they took everything from me!” He starts beating the stick against the ground. “They took it, they took it, they took it!”

            “What—what did they take?”

            Golightly abruptly shoots to his feet, and this time I do step back. I knew he was bigger than me from the demographics, but—he is much larger than I anticipated. “You _know_ what they took!” he roars. “They took everything, you know they took everything and now you’re here for the rest but there’s nothing left!” He pounds a fist against his chest. “There’s nothing else because they stole the only thing I _had_ —”

            Suddenly, Golightly stops. He gapes at me, his mouth forming an O. I struggle not to pull my wand to protect myself.

            Startled, Golightly says, “Harry Potter?”

            What the—what the fuck?

            His eyes clear, and he shakes his head. “No—no, you’re—you can’t be him. He had—two boys! Two boys, and—a girl. I heard that. I heard that on Diagon, we all celebrated—but I can’t go to Diagon. Merlin told me I can’t go to Diagon. People on Diagon—they hear my thoughts. They steal them for their schemes. Merlin keeps me safe.” Golightly moans, “He was _supposed_ to keep me safe. But what am I now? What am I, now that it’s all gone?”

            Fucking—nifflers on fire. He _is_ a wizard.

            Golightly smiles sickly. “Your dad, he knew my mate, Mundungus. Mundungus was a good bloke. Your dad ever talk about Mundungus? Good man. Good man. When they took my wand, Mundungus looked out for me. Dead now. All my mates are buried. They said I was a danger, you know—they said they couldn’t fix me if I wouldn’t let them, but Merlin keeps me safe. They wanted to cut out Merlin. They wanted to take away what made me special. I wouldn’t let them but they came back. They did it. All these years and now they’ve done it. They stole me. They stole my soul.” Golightly’s face falls. “They stole the special parts and Merlin still speaks to me but now he’s just a voice. He’s a voice in my head and that’s it. He’s not magic at all. He’s a voice.”

            “Eric—where’s your family? Where’s someone who knows you?”

            “They’re gone. All gone. They said I was sick and made me leave. Then they all burned up in a fire. I survived because Merlin told me to leave.” Golightly steps back, panting. “Was he only ever a voice? Was he never there? Don’t tell me it was fake. I’m not sick. I’m not sick, I’m special. Merlin chose _me_.”

            I am frightened. I don’t know what to do. But he is more scared, and more confused, and I’m not going to run from this.

            So I step forward, keeping my voice calm, trying to maintain eye contact. “Who stole your magic?”

            “He had no face. He stole me. He stole all the things that make me— _me_. There’s nothing left. There’s voices and sticks and there’s no magic. Magic’s not real anymore. I’m not me.”

            “You _are_ you. You’re here, and you’re talking to me. I’m listening to you.”

            “No one listens to me.”

            “I am.”

            He gazes at me. Then he walks right at me. Oh dear. I swallow, and I stand my ground. I can do this.

            Golightly looms over me, trying to smile. It looks frenzied and pitiful and I don’t know how to help him. “You can help me. Harry Potter helps people. He must have taught you that. Harry Potter must have good sons. You look kind. Can you help me? I need help.”

            “I’ll—do what I can.”

            He grabs up my hands, and I force myself not to pull away. His hands are hot and meaty and he is so much stronger than I am. “You have a wand?”

            “I—yes, I do, but—”

            “You have a wand, good, all good wizards have wands. And you’re not afraid. You’re not afraid and you’re going to help me.”

            “Yes.”

            Golightly says, “Kill me.”

            I try to yank my hands away, but his hold on me is too tight. He doesn’t even notice my reaction.

            Eyes feverish, Golightly wheedles, “I can’t do it, not the right way, not with a wand, but you have a wand and you said you’d help. You have to help me, I can’t do it myself. I can’t die a filthy Squib, I can’t be this impotent thing, so I need you to help me, little Potter, I need help, you have to help.”

            He looks at me with such need. Such absolute conviction.

            I’m fighting to get away. Golightly glances down at our hands, realizing I’m trying to get loose. To my surprise, he lets me go.

            I move back. My heart’s pounding, and I still feel him all over my hands. “I can’t do that,” I say, hearing hysteria approaching on my voice. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”

            He slumps, slowly. Some of the panic recedes from his face.

            I can’t lose him yet. “I can get you other help. We can go back to St. Mungo’s—they were wrong about you. They said you weren’t a wizard, but they were wrong. I believe you. I want to make this better. I want to find whoever did this to you. I can help you, just—not like that.”

            Golightly looks like he’s relaxing. I don’t know why, but that sets me more on edge. For a moment, he doesn’t seem like he knows where he is.

            When he moves towards me, I flinch. But he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Of course you can’t. Terrible of me to ask. Not thinking straight. The voices in my head…been there so long I can’t tell what’s me and what’s him.” Golightly brushes off my shoulders, squeezing my arms. “You’re a good boy. Yes. A good boy.”

            He brushes past me.

            I don’t like this. I shouldn’t have done this by myself. I can’t help but feel like I’m fucking this up.

            Turning, I say, “Let me call my dad— _Eric_!”

            As he strides deliberately onto the road, one sound follows the other. There’s the sound of the bus wheels, of a vehicle that hasn’t even thought of stopping. The sick echoing thud as he hits the bus, and the smash of glass as his body rolls up against the windshield. There is another sound, smaller, one I will probably hear in my dreams until I die, and that’s a squelching strain as his body begins to come apart. Then another final thud as his body goes beneath the bus, and the screech of tires as the bus struggles to brake.

            It comes to a rest what seems like a million metres away.

            I fall, and at first I’m not sure why. I remember that I just tried to take a step, and my legs grew tangled. So I fell. This doesn’t feel real. It can’t be more than ten seconds. Ten seconds ago he was alive. Ten seconds after that he’s killed himself.

            I want to be sick, but I don’t know how. Vehicles are all coming to a stop on the road. I vaguely hear people screaming.

            Fifteen seconds? Is it only fifteen seconds?

            I put my foot flat on the pavement. I brace a hand on the sidewalk, swinging my other leg around. Using all four of my limbs, I push myself to my feet. I waver, and for a moment I simply exist.

            He’s dead. He was alive and now he’s dead.

            I turn around. I walk back down the A4. I do not look back.

 

I apparate up to Bedford awhile later. I’m not sure how long I walked along the A4. It’s dark now. My feet hurt. I need to go home.

            I don’t want to go home. If I go home I’ll be alone. Zamora can’t make things better. I wish I could go to Granddad’s, but he’s probably upset about Rose. I thought about going to Mum and Dad’s, but the next thought I had was how Dad would tell me how irresponsible I am. How it was my fault.

            I didn’t make him do it. It wasn’t my fault.

            Please, please, don’t let this be my fault.

            I come out in my backyard. There’s something about the noise that I hear when I apparate—the way it rips past my ears. I hear him dying. I shut my eyes and stand here, feeling everything else inside me being scraped out and replaced by the sounds of a man dying.

            “Hey!” someone snaps.

            I jump. I actually leave the ground a moment. Putting up my hands, I pull away from the sound.

            Scorpius is standing up from the back steps. His face doesn’t look like his. The Scorpius I know is smiling and bright. This Scorpius—his face is contorted, his brow furrowed.

            “What are you trying to pull?” he demands.

            I push my hair back from my forehead. My hands are shaking.

            “Are you listening? I’m asking you, what made you think you had any right?”

            He’s in a different world than I am. He’s in a world where he doesn’t hear the sound. I’m not in the world where he is. “I can’t talk about this right now,” I say quietly, putting my head down and walking towards the house.

            Only Scorpius gets in my way. I flinch back from him. I don’t want to touch anyone right now. “I don’t give a shit if you feel like talking. You’re going to stand here and tell me what’s wrong with you! You’re going to explain to me why you thought it was all right and well to attack Rose like that!”

            “Can we please do this some other—”

            “No!” Scorpius shouts in my face, and I cringe. “I can’t believe you! She’s your cousin! She’s the love of my bloody life, and you _humiliated_ her in front of the whole of England!”

            Pressing my lips together, I mutter, “I think she did that herself, jerking off her employer in the middle of a crowded bar.”

            His hands slam into my shoulders, sending me back a step. “You think this is funny? Ha ha, it’s all a big joke. You’re unbelievable, you know that? All the time I spend defending you—do you know what people say about you?”

            “I know what they say about me.”

            “I don’t think you do! He’s not really that bad, I tell people. He’s nice, if you take the time to know him. He’s a good fellow, if you get past the sarcasm and the self pitying and the entitlement. But really, all this time, underneath you’re just as selfish and cruel as everyone says. Do you know that?”

            “Fine.”

            He shoves me again. “Stop that! Give me a reason! Give me a reason why you were so fucking cruel! Why would you _do_ that to her?”

            “Stop hitting me—”

            Scorpius grabs me by the front of the shirt. “Tell me, Albus. Tell me why you’re like this, why you’d hurt her like this, why you’d hurt _me_ —”

            Struggling, I say, “Get off—”

            Neither of us are particularly strong men, so we just sort of flail about at each other. But I’m getting desperate, needing him to get off me, to get away. I don’t want to be touched, I don’t want anyone near me, I need him to get away.

            Scorpius just keeps asking me why I did it, wanting a reason, demanding a reason, and it’s too much, it’s all _too much_.

            With a sudden burst of strength, I shove him away from me and scream, “BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

            I moan, turning away. My hands are on my face, my head. I don’t know where to put them, because I just want to hide.

            Turning a full circle, I tell him, “I have loved you since before I knew what love bloody was, before I knew I was gay, before I knew what it was to want another person, and I have loved you ever since, and I have never faltered! I never needed to be convinced to love you, I didn’t need you to beg me over the span of years, I just loved you because you deserved it. I didn’t need to be convinced to keep loving you, I didn’t need tricks or rings or anything, I just did it! I’ve never needed you to have a better job or a different name or to even love me back! I have loved you with no hope of reciprocation and I have lived with that and it is one of the best things about me and one of the most pathetic. I have loved you for all the reasons Rose never loved you the way you needed and you still chose her. You chose her and I will never not hate her for that. She could slaughter a thousand Squibs and I’d never hate her so much as for what she’s done to you. So you want me to apologize? You want me to feel terrible because I caused her five seconds of discomfort on her march to the top? I will _never_ feel sorry for her, and I will never apologize, because if I could I would have cut out her heart and put it on a pike! So don’t fucking stand there and ask the one person who loves you best why I’d do this, because you’re the only person who doesn’t fucking know! _I_ love you best and I apologize for _nothing_.”

            I inhale and exhale, feeling the air shiver over my lips.

            Scorpius stands there, wide eyed and pale. I wait for him to say something. For him to tell me it’s okay, the way he always does.

            He blinks and shakes his head, as if waking from a spell. “I can’t do this,” he says.

            He turns away, and I say helplessly, “Scorpius.”

            Still shaking his head, Scorpius says firmly, “I don’t want this. No.”

            He disapparates.

            For the second time today, I have a difficult time remembering how to walk. I somehow stagger over to the steps, and sink down upon them. I don’t weep, because I’m not a man who has many tears. I couldn’t even cry when Nan died.

            Instead, I gasp. I gasp for breath, and I quiver, and I have never felt so alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Lily comes knocking at my door on Sunday afternoon.

            When I open the door, it’s because I’m hoping someone has come to check on me. I haven’t left the house since Thursday. Most of it I’ve spent lying in bed or staring at the ceiling. I keep waiting for someone to show up, or owl.            

            I keep waiting for someone to ask about Eric Golightly.

            So when I open the door, I’ve allowed myself something very out of character. I’ve let myself be hopeful. I’m not used to needing other people, but I do in this moment, and I don’t know how to ask.

            Of course, when I see Lily’s face, I realize I was ridiculous to think anyone would care. After all, I’m the reigning champion of pushing people away.

            She smiles at me, a smile that looks genuine, that lights up her beautiful face. She’s wearing Muggle clothes in thin fabrics, with plenty of jewelry, her long red hair left free. “Hi Al.”

            “What do you want?”

            “I was—I wasn’t up to much today, and I realized it had been quite some time since we saw one another.” I gaze back at her with blank eyes. My sister has never just dropped by. She always wants something, and it’s never anything good. Lily gestures past me. “May I come in?”

            “No,” I reply, keeping my hold on the door so that I can close it at any moment.

            Lily slumps one shoulder, looking at me cajolingly. “Oh, come on—”

            “Even if you were here to give back everything you ever stole, I wouldn’t let you step foot in this house. Just tell me what you want, Lily. I don’t have the patience for whatever game you’re trying to play.”

            I see her thinking, back behind the façade of conviviality. She quickly covers up the inner workings. “Have you seen James lately?”

            “I saw him Thursday.”

            I can tell that surprises her. “Well, I…I was out with some friends the other night, and I saw him. He was with some people I knew.”

            “Why should I care?”

            “They were…people I don’t hang around with anymore. Not good people.”

            I give it a second, then say, “Spit it out, Lily.”

            She swallows, then says, “I think he’s using. These people…that’s what they do. I didn’t say anything to him because I didn’t know what to do, but I thought you should know.”

            I wait to see if that’s as far as she’s willing to go. When I see that she’s not going to be honest, I tell her, “Now tell me what you really want.”

            Lily frowns, stamping her foot slightly. “I _told_ you—”

            “If you were really concerned for James, you would have gone to Mum and Dad, and I would have heard this from Mum, probably a few weeks after the fact. You’d never come to me first. You want to ingratiate yourself, and when my guard is low you’ll ask me for something. I know all your tricks.”

            “That’s unfair,” Lily protests. “I’ve been clean for months, can you not just—can I not get some recognition for that?”

            “Goodbye, Lily,” I say, starting to close the door.

            Her hands shoot out. “No, _wait_.” I stop, raising a brow. Lily has shed the mask. She purses her lips, struggling with herself. Closing her eyes briefly, Lily says in a rush, “I need some money.”

            Letting go of the door, I feel a rush of fury. “Are you fucking _kidding_ right now—”

            Holding out her hands, Lily insists, “It’s not what you think.”

            “The hell it isn’t—”

            “I’m behind on my rent and—I’ve tried everything.” I start to laugh, and Lily says, “I have! I’ve tried everything I can think of, but it’s not working out, and I just need some help.”

            “You’ve tried everything?”

            “Yes, believe it or not—”

            “Did you try getting a job?”

            “I have my designs—”

            Rolling my eyes, I point at her and say, “This is no one’s problem but your own. You haven’t tried everything, you’ve just tried the things you wanted and you expect everyone else to pick up the slack, same as always. You have to be high right now to come here and think that I’d just hand you money, after _everything_ —” I stop, then ask angrily, “Are you high? Is that what this is?”

            “No!”

            “You are, aren’t you—”

            “No, I’m here because you’re my brother and I need help and no one else will help me!”

            “No? Mum and Dad not buying this dog and pony show? Did they actually tell you to act like a grown up and get a job?” Lily grimaces, and I let out another laugh. “Oh no! They did, didn’t they! That’s marvelous. It’s the end times, Lily, because the bloody impossible has happened—”

            “This isn’t funny! I’m going to get evicted!”

            “Because _you_ didn’t pay _your_ rent because _you_ don’t want to get a job!”

            “I can’t be you! I can’t spend eight hours a day in a place I hate, looking at boring paper all the time. I can’t do that! I have my designs, I have what I’m passionate about!”

            “Then you’re going to live on the streets, and you know what? That’s a fucking dangerous place to be right now, Lily. That’s a goddamn _dangerous_ place to be.”

            “What are you _talking_ about?”

            Shaking my head, I say, “I can’t be arsed with this. You’re the life of the party, Lily, with all the friends in the world. You’re so desperate to stay unemployed but keep a roof over your head, go begging to them.”

            She stops me before I can close the door. “No one will talk to me,” Lily says, panic seeping in, and I realize I’m the very last person she can come to. “They won’t—my friends, they won’t help. I burned—I burned a lot of bridges, and I know that, but they did shitty things too, I’m not the only one—”

            “Grow up!” I yelp. “You stole from them! You humiliated them, you fucked their boyfriends, you vomited all over their houses and still you acted like you were so superior. Congratulations, Lily, now you have to be on the ground with all us little people.”

            “I need help!” Lily yells.

            I throw the door back, so hard it slams against the wall. Lily jumps back as I step outside. “Do you know the last person who said that to me?” I shout at her. “Do you know who was the last person that asked me for help? It was a homeless man who asked me to kill him, and then threw himself in front of a bus when I said no. A man who’d been maimed, who had his magic torn away from him, and I watched him die, I stood as far from him as I am from you right now and you’re going to stand there—you! You rich, privileged, entitled princess, who’s never had to sacrifice a thing. You’re going to stand there and act like the world owes you something. The world owes you shit, but you owe _me_ , and you get the fuck away from my house until you’re ready to pay me back.”

            I stride back inside, slamming the door after myself.

 

I’m a bundle of nerves and disaster when I walk into St. Mungo’s on Monday. Between Lily and Suzette and watching a man die and my terror that Scorpius will never speak to me again, I feel like I’m going to shake apart. I had approximately three hours of sleep last night. It feels like less.

            I force myself into the lift with everyone else, into the nooks and crannies of the crowd. It’s not that difficult, really. I feel small.

            Someone gently but deliberately elbows me. Rebecca stands beside me. She looks even more tired than the last time I saw her. “How was your weekend?” she murmurs, exhausted.

            “It was shit,” I reply. “Yours?”

            She nods, staring forward. “That seems to sum it up.”

            When the door opens on her floor, she gives me a weak smile before walking down the hall. Down to the Janus Thickey. Where they should have put Golightly. He would have survived if they had just…bothered. The doors close, and the lift jerks upwards.

            I step off onto the fifth floor, outside the tearoom. Hunching my shoulders, I keep my head down and walk to the Records Department. I don’t know how I’ll react if Suzette comes after me this morning.

            I walk through the doors to the department, making sure to close it after myself. I glance around, because every time I try to just walk straight to my office, I get ambushed.

            Suzette is standing in her office, dictating something. She stops when she sees me, and I’m so frayed from everything that I can’t even feel apprehensive. As her quill continues dancing over the page, Suzette smiles at me. For some reason, she’s happy, truly happy. And that can only mean trouble for me.

            I continue on, my eyes aching and tired. If I had any sense, I would have taken the day off sick, but I already missed two days and—

            I stop outside my office. At first, all I can do is gaze inside.

            Once I can move my feet again, I unlock the door and slip into the room. I close the door softly, trying to take it in. It’s a catastrophe. Everything is covered in papers. There are stacks of them, in no particular order, sloppily cast down on every surface. Dozens have scattered across the floor.

            I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.

            Wiping them on my chest, I try to figure out what to do. This is too much. This is my space, where I am in control. They’re mocking me. She’s mocking me.

            I set my bag down on the floor, and withdraw my wand. I don’t know where to begin. This is overwhelming. It’s too much. It’s just too much.

            All of a sudden, I break. After days of barely hanging on, I let go. Swinging my wand with a roar, I cast out my rage, and my magic is an ocean set screaming across the land.

            The room explodes.

            Every sheet of paper bursts upwards. A stream of blank pages floods the air, and they mate together. Text flies off one page and attaches to another, pages shrink and expand. It whirls around me in a tornado, and I let my magic flow, squeezing my eyes shut and screeching inside my own head. I’m lost in a storm of paper, data organizing and flying and replicating at breakneck speed.

            I slice my wand through the air, and every sheet goes streaking around the room. They begin slamming down into stacks, each finding their perfect place, each lining up, one after another, until it is all settled and finished and exactly as it ought to be.

            I sway a second, then hit the ground on my knees. Nauseous, I drop my wand and hold myself up with one hand. Sweat bursts from my temples and begins rolling down my face.

            It takes it out of me when I do that. I have this thing—I’ve never heard anyone else describe it. Sometimes, if I’m really upset, if I’ve held onto things too long, if I’ve let it fester, I can channel it into one massive spell. When I was a teenager, I couldn’t control it. I’d just explode, and take out walls. Everyone said, you need to control yourself. Not, why are you so angry?

            _You’ll regret it, you know. Get a handle on it, or something far worse will happen_

            I’m dizzy. And in a matter of seconds, I’ve completed the work of several days.

            I have to get out of here.

 

Before going to Kimber’s, I buy a box of expensive chocolates. Soft centers, not hard. We’re alike on that account. If I bite into some solid toffee, I get inexplicably irritated. Then again, ‘inexplicably irritated’ could be the title of my memoirs.

            The house is on the edge of the city. There’s a large sign out front that says Chesterton Sober Living Facility. Seeing that, all I can think is that I’d love to have a drink. However, it’s 10 in the morning, and I’m not quite there yet.

            Walking up the steps, I rap on the door a few times, then move back. I sense someone’s gaze. Glancing over, I see a girl sitting in the window. She’s as skinny as Lily was, skin sickly, clothes far too large. We give one another little embarrassed smiles, trying to apologize for having been caught looking at one another.

            The door opens, and Kimber smiles widely when she sees me. “Albus!”

            She’s a solid woman, with meaty arms that are usually bare, showing off all her freckles. Her red hair would give Aunt Hermione’s a run for her money in terms of height and width. Same as always, Kimber is dressed like she’s seventy years out of time, like some hippie. Tye dyed dresses and long necklaces and earrings that were most likely made by some fair trade co-op in Africa. She has the most beautiful smile in the world.

            I hold the box out to her. “I come bearing gifts.”

            She glances down at them, then up at my face. Taking the box, she says in her strange Canadian accent, “What’s wrong?”

            If I was being predictable, I’d get defensive. I’d ask if something needed to be wrong for me to come see a friend. Instead, I find myself unable to rely on any of my usual tricks. Horror of all horrors, I find myself telling her exactly what I need.

            “Could I have a hug?” I ask.

            Kimber doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t poke fun. She doesn’t even say a word. She sets the chocolates down inside, then steps out onto the porch, spreading her arms.

            I wrap my arms around her and close my eyes. I know she won’t let go until I do. For a long, long time, as Kimber holds me tight, I don’t even contemplate letting go.

 

We sit on a bench, down the street from the house. The box of chocolates sits between us, half empty. I have to admit, that’s mostly my doing.

            When I was nineteen, I briefly dated this guy—oh dear. I can’t remember his name. Alexander! Blimey, can’t believe I nearly forgot that. But to be honest, there wasn’t much to remember. He was a Muggle, and into all sorts of social justice causes, which was the most interesting thing about him. The only interesting thing about him, frankly. I was nineteen and not that far out of the closet and hadn’t realized yet that I should just dump people who annoyed me.

            Kimber was part of his friend group. She caught me with my wand one night, and it turned out her sister was a witch. And—I don’t know. We’re not that similar, obviously. She’s warm and open and she can be terribly earnest. That’s antithetical to everything about me. At the same time, though, it was strangely nice to have someone who focused so completely when I spoke, who wasn’t afraid to say the things an English person would dither over. And she seemed to both be invested in my life, and amused by all the things that make me so prickly. In the end, I dropped the guy and kept her.

            Arm stretched along the back of the bench, Kimber says, “That’s a lot, Albus.”

            “I know.”

            “You know, you can come to me when it’s small. You don’t have to wait until _everything_ is a mess before coming to talk.”

            Wincing, I say, “I know. I feel like shit about this, though.”

            “Why?”

            “I haven’t seen you in a month, and I finally show up and it’s because things are fucked up. And I expect you to make sense of it for me. I’m not a very good friend.”

            Kimber pokes me in the shoulder. “Albus. I love hanging out with you, but I’ve been stupid busy at the house. I haven’t had time to just chill. Besides—c’mon. Making sense of people’s messes is my kink. You know that.” I smile at that, and she gives me a jostle. She’s not afraid to be physically affectionate. Anyone else, it would bother me. It doesn’t with her. “You can come to me. If it’s not a good time, I’ll let you know. And you can pay me back by coming in later and helping with the plumbing. You can probably fix with your wand what I’ve been paying out the ass for to a plumber.”

            “You deal with my shit, I’ll deal with yours?”

            “Exactly. So! What do you want to talk about first?”

            “I don’t even know. It’s all such a tangle. In your opinion, what’s the most dire?”

            “Well, I would say watching a man die is a pretty big thing.”

            “Yeah.”

            “But I think you’re more upset about Scorpius.”

            I shut my eyes. “Please don’t say that. I sound like a terrible person if you say that.”

            “Albus. Humans don’t just follow a hierarchy of the most logical things to worry about. I’ve seen homeless men on the coldest night of the year refuse to go to the shelter because they can’t take their dogs with them. The heart trumps sense, every time.”

            “You’ve lived here for how many years and you’re still using ‘trump’ in a sentence?”

            “I mean, a lot of the time I do it because I know it makes you laugh. Come on. Tell me about Scorpius first, and then we can discuss other stuff.”

            I look down at my hands. I’m not sure when I last had an emotionally honest conversation about Scorpius to anyone. “I really fucked things up, Kimber,” I murmur.

            “How’d you do that?”

            “I _told_ him.”

            “You told him something personal immediately after one of the worst experiences of your life. If you told him that, I think he’d understand.”

            “No.”

            “Is this an English thing, a guy thing, or a you thing?”

            “Probably a combination of all three.”

            “I want to do a thought experiment with you. Imagine if you sat down and said to him, this is what happened that day. I was really upset, and I needed you to listen, but instead you came over, and yelled at me about something entirely different. I was in a vulnerable position, and I told you something that I wasn’t ready to tell you. And we need to discuss that.”

            I look at her lovingly. “Your Canadian naivete is so adorable.”

            “Laugh all you want, but if it was me, that’s what I’d do. After I have a talk with someone like that, I feel about a thousand times better. And instead of that constant circle of fretting and hating myself, it’s just over. I make the effort to put things right between me and someone else. Do you know how great that feels?”

            “I can’t do that.”

            “Okay. Then just be miserable about that.”

            “It’s easier to be miserable.”

            “It’s really not. But you wouldn’t know that, because you’ve never let yourself be happy.”

            “It’s not a happy world.”

            “It is if you make it one.” Kimber scratches at my shoulder. “You can’t go back from this. The only way is forward. So? What do you say to him the next time you see him?”

            “In all honesty? I either pretend that it never happened or I make a sarcastic comment about it.”

            “What if he wants to talk about it?”

            “He doesn’t,” I say darkly. “He said the exact words to me. He’d rather I never said anything.”

            “Tough. For both of you. Because you said it, and that’s it. How about this? ‘I understand that this was unexpected. I don’t expect anything from you. These are my feelings. If I can make this better for you, I’ll listen. I’ll answer any questions you have. But I don’t want this to ruin our friendship.’ Is that a little more attainable?”

            “Except I _have_ ruined the friendship.”

            “Of all the times I’ve met Scorpius, I’ve never had the impression that he’d just drop you, for any reason.”

            “Yeah, well, this time I embarrassed ‘the love of his life’—who fucking dumped him, by the way—and then told him I desire him carnally. That’s a lot.”

            “It’s not. You’re just melodramatic.” Kimber nudges me again and says, “Albus, one of these days you’ll listen to me and you’ll actually figure out that if you make the effort, things aren’t as bad as you think they are. But that’s gonna be contingent on you listening to me, man. Let me ask you something. Would it have made you feel better to take this to the grave? Him never knowing. That would make you happier?”

            “I…don’t actually know.”

            “Well, think about it. No one expects you to have it all together right now. You can call me about it if you want to talk.”

            “Time to stop talking about Scorpius, then.”

            “We can keep talking about it. Or we can talk about the thing you don’t want to even think about.”

            I play with my hands. My nails are atrocious. I have reddish hangnails that hurt if I touch them. It’s working around all that dust and never moisturizing.

            Softly, I ask, “Did I kill him?”

            Kimber immediately puts a hand to the back of my neck. “Buddy? In no way, shape, or form did you kill that man.”

            “I was so stupid. I thought that if I just went out there by myself, that I’d—I don’t even know what I thought! It was so arrogant. I didn’t know what I was doing and I expected it to all go exactly how it should—and why I was I even out there? It has nothing to do with me, it’s not my job, and I just meddled, and now a man is dead.”

            Kimber replies calmly, “You were there because it had everything to do with you.” I shake my head, not understanding. “You saw that something bad had happened and that everyone else refused to do anything about it. You made it your business because it was the right thing to do. That’s not something to beat yourself up over. And you’d asked for help. You asked your dad, your brother, your boss—they blew you off. So you did the best you could. And before you say that wasn’t enough—when you walked in on this guy, he was already trying to kill himself. People die, Albus. It’s one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned in this business. You can offer them treatment, a safe place to stay, therapy, money, anything and everything, and if they’re not right with themselves, it doesn’t mean shit. _He_ made a choice. Albus, he even asked you to kill him and you refused. You’re not responsible. Okay? You hear me?”

            Chewing on my lip, I need a few seconds before I can nod.

            “Okay. Good. But still…that was a really awful thing that you saw. He shouldn’t have done that in front of you. I’m really sorry that happened, buddy.”

            Unable to look at her, I whisper, “I heard his skin split.”

            Kimber takes a deep breath. “He must have been in so much pain. I don’t mean—not when he killed himself, but before. He must have felt so lost.”

            “The world _abandoned_ him. His family cut him loose for being mentally ill, they took his wand, and then they up and died. Even if he’d been around other witches and wizards, they would have forced him down to Knockturn, if they let him stay in the area at all. But he had this fucking voice in his head, telling him, stay away. Stay away from them, because they’ll hurt you. And maybe they would have. But he ended up so isolated. He was the perfect target for someone who just wanted to…fuck. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Stealing someone’s magic? How could they?”

            “It all sounds equally plausible to me. Steph’s the only witch in the family, so everything sounds like a fantasy to me. You’re telling me no one’s ever lost their magic before?”

            “Not like this. You can’t take someone’s magic. You can cast spells to smother it, but it’s still there. Him and Mrs. Gundersen, their magic is just _gone_. It’s like it never existed. A person who’d do something like this, they won’t just stop. Everyone is at risk from someone like this.”

            “What about the lady? What are you going to do about her?”

            “I don’t know. I’m not…I’m not equipped for this, Kimber. I’m not an auror. I’m just me. I can’t make this stop. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.”

            “Can you live with yourself if you do nothing?”

            “God, that’s not fair—”

            “I’m not telling you that you _have_ to do anything. I’m asking if you, personally, think that you can just let this go.”

            “I should be able to,” I insist. “I’m not like this. I have—no interest in helping other people. I’m misanthropic, and bitter, and I keep to myself. That’s me.”

            Kimber smiles crookedly. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” I sigh, and Kimber says, “Albus, I’m in touch with homeless organizations all over the country. If you give me her info, I can try and find her. We’ll see about getting her some help.”

            “I’d appreciate that.”

            “You said the guy didn’t have any family.”

            “I mean, he might. I have no idea if I can believe anything that came out of his mouth.”

            “What about the body?”

            I look at her, horrified. “What do you mean, what about—” She raises her brows, and I squeeze my eyes closed. “Oh. Oh no. I didn’t even think about that.”

            “Yeah.”

            Tapping my foot against the grass, I think about it. After a moment, I ask, “Can you look into that? Find him as well?”

            “You sure?”

            “No, I’m not bloody sure. But can you do it?”

            “I can. So—you want to talk about your sister?”

            Glaring at her, I say, “I’d rather talk about your plumbing. Speaking of, shall I look at your pipes?”

            “All romance,” Kimber says, and pulls me to my feet.

 

Scorpius is definitely avoiding me.

            On Monday I stay away from work entirely. I think that I’m avoiding him by not going to lunch. The next day, I find out that it was probably mutual.

            We see each other five days a week for lunch. We have for years. It was his idea, when he moved out of our flat and in with Rose. “I don’t want you to feel you’ve been forgotten,” he told me. “I want to see your scowling face as often as possible.” In all these years, I’ve never missed a day without letting Scorpius know first, not until this week. He’s never missed a day without owling me.

            On Tuesday, I sit in the park alone, at our usual table. I eat my eggplant and tofu sandwich, waiting for him, and I tell myself it’s for the best when he doesn’t come.

            The next day, I sit in the tearoom at work, like I always do on Wednesday. I wait, wanting him to show up and to not show up. As the hour wears on, my stomach twists more and more. We’re always early, the both of us. Having him not arrive at all… I feel sick.

            Thursday is lunch at the Ministry. I go to our usual seat, and I can feel people looking at me. I don’t like being in the Ministry at the best of times, but this is something else entirely. I see people smirking, murmuring to one another together. Typical Albus Potter; always doing something to embarrass the family. Can you believe they put up with him?

            Normally the looks don’t bother me, because I’m with Scorpius. He’s been my shield all these years. He’s protected me. I’ve taken that for granted. Without him here with me, I feel like a target. I’m unwelcome here. I don’t fit into my family’s narrative, and this place thrives on my family’s narrative.

            Scorpius has never really been angry with me before. We’ve had our spats here and there. I know I’m unbearable, and he’s a saint for putting up with as much as he has, but he’s never just ignored me like this. The only times Scorpius has ever ignored anyone is when they’re directly responsible for the subjugation of the marginalized.

            This feels terrible. I’ve always relied on him to be there for me. What if he never is again? What if I’ve really broken things for good?

            I can’t stand this. I grab up my lunch after twenty minutes of sitting here, not being able to eat, and throw my food in the garbage. There’s a lot I can stand, but being ignored is not amongst them.

            So I walk through the main lobby, towards the elevators that will lead to the Department of Magical Housing. Even if he tells me to leave, at least he’ll have spoken to me. I’ll have gotten something other than this—silence.

            My heart lurches when I see his familiar blond curls bouncing along. I dodge around some people, trying to catch up with him. He’s wearing a new suit. Maroon. He looks beautiful, the same as always. I have this grasping, aching feeling inside, just from seeing him.

            He glances over, and our eyes meet.

            For a moment, Scorpius slows. He almost stops. But then he looks away from me, and continues walking.

            It’s like someone reached inside my chest and closed their hand around my heart. I walk a little further as he steps onto the elevator. He turns around to face out the door, but he stares resolutely downwards, refusing to look at me.

            I stand here, staring, as the doors close.

            Okay. Okay.

            I turn away. I’m fine. I’m just being stabbed, repeatedly. That’s what’s happening, isn’t it? I’m being stabbed and I’m also numb. I don’t exist to Scorpius anymore. Great.

            I’m not sure how long I wander, but I end up in front of a sign. Directions. I should just go back to work. Yeah. I should go back to work.

            Only I see a big arrow pointing to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I’m suddenly walking in that direction.

            It’s been years since I’ve gone to the department. It’s hardly changed. A few new hallways here and there, so I briefly get lost, but after ten minutes I walk through the doors.

            Fuck off. Assistant Springstep is behind the front desk, hands folded and already smiling. When he sees that it’s me, his eyes lose some of their spark.

            “Welcome to the—”

            “Save it,” I say. “I need to speak to my father.”

            “The Minister is in a meeting—”

            “Then may I wait?”

            “The Minister will be unavailable all day—” I let out a growl, and Springstep suggests, “I’m sure that if you tried to speak to him outside of office hours—”

            “No, it—I’m here on an—official capacity.”

            “You have a crime to report?”

            “In a manner of speaking.”

            Springstep reaches for a large book on his desk and turns it around. “If you just place your hand here, the first available auror would be happy to speak to you.”

            The first available auror would laugh me out of here, just like everyone else. “No, I—I would be more comfortable speaking to my father.”

            Springstep pulls the book back. “The Minister is responsible for running the department, not solving cases. I’m afraid that if you don’t want to see an auror, we’ll be unable to help you.”

            “Did we fuck?”

            He blinks, appalled. “Excuse me?”

            I gesture between the two of us. “Did we hook up at some point and I’ve just forgotten? Because usually people who are this snide to me are men I’ve fucked who were entirely unmemorable.” He’s working his mouth, unable to come up with a response. Losing patience, I stride forward and grab the book. “I assume this is a record.” I lay my hand on the page. My name and date of birth and the word ‘Regarding:’ all appear beside my handprint. “Regarding the death of Eric Golightly,” I tell the book, and the words write themselves in. “Requested to speak to Minister Harry Potter, was denied. There—now, when there’s more of these cases, there’s an official record that I tried to tell the department about it and was ignored.”

            I shove the book at Springstep and walk back out the door. I can feel how warm the sides of my face are.

            I could just go to the house. After work. I could go to Mum and Dad’s and tell Dad that I have to talk to him.

            But that proves the point, doesn’t it? That the system is letting these people down. That the only way to get anything done is to cheat. How many people on this island are suffering because the systems in place are aligned against them?

            I storm back out to the lobby, and immediately come up against a small crowd. Someone is standing on the fountain. The one of my father and Voldemort. Water shoots out from their wands. I used to think the fountain was incredible when I was a little boy, the colours and patterns the water would make with their simulated spells. Now it just looks tacky. Far too gold. Dad’s face has been changed in small, insidious ways to make him look more white and less Indian.

            People come to the fountain to grandstand about politics. What better background than Harry Potter fighting the legendary enemy?

            The last twenty minutes have been distressing, and the last thing I need to see is Terrence Quarry standing on the fountain, puffed up and regaling the crowd with his latest political travesty.

            Holding the lapels of his robe, Quarry says, “As we’ve proven, the bureaucracy in our department is out of control, and as we’ve _also_ proven, removing restrictions creates opportunity. Opportunity to build, to create new jobs, to meet the housing problems facing magic kind. We’ve demonstrated that, far from damaging magical housing, we’ve allowed for faster, safer, more economical forms of construction—”

            He has no remorse.

            And I see red.

 

When he opens the door, Sian doesn’t look taken aback. He does ask, “How did you find my house?”

            “I work in demographics,” I reply, and slap a piece of paper into his hand.

            Even though it’s evening and he’s in his own home, Sian is still dressed stylishly in a pink and yellow suit with a paisley waistcoat. He unfolds the paper and lifts it to his face, reading.

            After a moment, Sian says, “I thought your moral compass precluded children.”

            Ignoring that, I say, “I don’t care who you give it to or what you do with it. Just promise me that you will _ruin_ him for life. I’m not messing around on this.”

            Sian gazes at me. It’s not to see if I mean it, or to ask if I’ll change my mind. Sian has no compunctions about things like this. Running his tongue over his teeth, Sian folds up the page and sticks it in his pocket.

            “Done,” he says. I nod, and go to leave. Sian asks, “Want a rage shag?”

            “Don’t fucking tempt me,” I mutter, and apparate.

 

 It’s Saturday before I hear back from Kimber. I’m curled up on the sofa with Zamora when she calls. I debate leaving things for another day or two, but I realize that if I do that then I’ll never do anything about it.

            So I end up at the morgue twenty minutes later, asking myself how the hell I ever got caught up in this.   

            There’s a bored looking man behind a computer. The badge around his neck says Simpson. “Eric Golightly, you said?”

            “Yeah.”

            He taps at the keyboard a few times. “He’s been here over a week.”

            I pause before diving even further into this horrible situation. “Uncle Eric wasn’t good about hanging onto my number. It had been awhile since I heard from him.”

            The man glances at me. I see a moment of doubt— _who does this brown boy think he’s kidding_ —but it disappears under a resurgence of apathy. “Name?”

            “Allan Golightly. I’m his brother’s son.”

            “I’d see if you could identify the body, but that’s a moot point,” Simpson says, getting up to look for something. “He doesn’t have a face left.”

            I’m abruptly nauseous. I can hear the wet splat/crack of Golightly’s body hitting the bus windshield. I curl and then unfurl my fingers, trying to look normal.

            Simpson turns back to me with a clipboard. “There’s some paperwork for you to fill out. Which funeral home’s taking him?”

            “Oh—ah—”

            Sighing, Simpson grabs another sheet of paper, slapping it on the clipboard, then passes it to me. “There’s a list of places. Give one of them a call, they’ll collect the body.”

            So what next, Albus? “I’m actually an undertaker,” I say. “I can take him.”

            Simpson stops. His eyes narrow.

            Blowing out a breath, I say, “Fuck this.” I pull out my wand, pointing it at him. “ _Obliviate_.”

            Simpson’s jaw goes slack, his eyes hazy. I toss the clipboard down on his desk, and he says, “Sorry?”

            Making my voice more confident, I say, “You high, mate? I’m here to pick up Eric Golightly for Granger’s Funeral Home. Can I get the body so I can get out of here? It’s Saturday bloody night.”

            “Right,” Simpson says uncertainly. He stands there a moment, then pulls his keys from his pocket. He casts me another look, but he turns and lets us into the morgue.

            I’ve only been in a morgue once before, and even then I only peeked through the door. I have no desire to make notes of the place. There are no bodies out, just shining sterile surfaces under a few fluorescent lights. Keeping my eyes down, I follow Simpson across the room, to a wall of metal with doors in them.

            Simpson opens one of the hatches, then rolls out a table. I almost vomit. I can’t see anything—it’s just a big black bag—but the way it rustles and shakes as it stops is more than I can stand. Golightly is in there. Golightly is now a bag of meat, and I am very cold.

            Shaking his head, Simpson looks at me sharply and says, “Where’s your cart?”

            I point my wand at him again and say forcefully, “ _Obliviate_.” As he falls backwards, I grab onto the bag, and apparate the body to my backyard.

 

Zamora is mewling at the cellar door. I sit on the ground, trying to catch my breath. It took longer than anticipated to get the body down here. Every few steps I’d think about what I was doing and need to put my head between my knees until the dizziness stopped.

            Now it’s me and a dead body in my cellar.

            “What are you _doing_?” I ask myself helplessly.

            After a few minutes, I get up and walk over to the table where I’ve set him down. I’ve stolen a corpse. This definitely establishes me as the blackest of sheep.

            I need awhile before I can crack the zipper at the top of the bag. As soon as I do, I groan, shaking my head at the ceiling. This is a really bad idea.

            “Fuck you for making me do this,” I mutter at Golightly. I push the tip of my wand through the hole, looking in the opposite direction. “ _Optentus_.”

            The bag puffs up with air a moment, then the scent of mint drifts out on the air. I quickly zip the bag back up, then take a few fast steps across the room. I press my back to the wall, heart pounding.

            That will preserve the body. All decay will stop. So when—if—someone takes me seriously, there will be a body they can examine.

            I’ve lost my mind.

            “See?” I tell Scorpius, wherever he is. “This is what happens when you’re not around.”

            I’m being silly. The body can’t do anything to hurt me. Golightly’s suffering is over.

            I force myself halfway across the room. Threading my fingers together, I fidget, glancing between the ground and the black bag.

            Finally, I say, “I’m really sorry about this, mate. I know this isn’t what you deserve. You deserve a proper burial. With the people you cared about around you. Only I don’t know if there were any people you cared about left. I’m not going to keep you in my cellar—that would be ghoulish. But I haven’t had the time to think about this. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out where to bury you. If I can get any sleep tonight. I don’t know how I can. But tomorrow, I’ll put you somewhere better. Somewhere magical. I’ll put you among witches and wizards, because that’s where you’re supposed to be. I would like to preface this by saying you’ll most likely be exhumed. When whoever hurt you does it enough times to get noticed—or if they do it to someone society decides is more important than people like you and I—they’ll want to have a look at you. So I’m sorry about that, but I think that if it helped find the person who hurt you, you’d agree. I don’t know. We didn’t know one another all that well.”

            I’m standing in my cellar, talking to a corpse I’ve stolen. Oh dear.

            Swallowing, I tell him, “I’m so sorry. That I wasn’t able to help you. I’m not good at helping people. I’m not good at much, really. If someone else had noticed what happened to you then maybe you would have gotten the help you deserve. But it was me, and I wasn’t enough to help you. I can’t make up for that. But—I promise. I _promise_ , that I will not let this go. I won’t pretend like you weren’t one of us, just because you didn’t have magic, or because you were hurt, or because you heard a voice in your head. I have a few core traits, and they are that I am bitter and stubborn, and I will stay the course. I don’t know how, but I will stop this. I will find who did this. And I’ll strip everything they are away. I promise you that, Eric.”

            Uncomfortable, I walk towards the stairs. At the top, I flick off the light switch. That doesn’t feel right.

            So I leave the light on for him.


	8. Chapter 8

I’m sitting with Zamora and _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ when someone apparates into my backyard.

            Dropping my book, I let out a long, aggrieved sigh. It was another wretched day at work. Another day of papers and doing nothing of real importance and a lunch eaten by myself. The most exciting thing I encountered today was Rebecca crying in the lobby, and that’s not exciting at all. I didn’t even stop, I just kept walking. I’m not sure how much empathy I have to go around.

            Now someone is here to see me at 7:00 in the evening. Splendid.

            It could be Scorpius.

            I shove that thought down. Every time I hope it’s him, it never is. It’s been well over a week and a half since Scorpius has spoken to me. I can’t hope it’s him for the rest of my life. The month of May has already been pathetic enough.

            He _does_ only ever apparate into the backyard.

            For fuck’s sake. Grumbling, I set my book on the table, then stand up. Zamora begins wailing, so I pick her up, cuddling her close to my face as I walk into the kitchen. “Good girl,” I murmur. “Best girl. Pretty, prettiest girl.”

            I stop when I see who it is through the window. Dad raises a hand, giving me a smile.

            I should be relieved. I tried twice to get hold of him through the department—I even went there—and now he’s finally here for me to talk to. Instead of relief, I feel irritation.

            Stop it. You made a promise.

            Keeping an arm around Zamora, I open the door with my other hand. “Hello,” Dad says. He’s wearing smart black robes with his Minister’s seal around the neck. He must have just left work.

            “Hi. Is—something wrong?”

            “No! Well—I’m supposed to ask _you_ that. I heard you’ve been trying to get in touch.”

            “A week ago. And two weeks ago.”

            “Two weeks ago? When was that?”

            “I called. I was told you wouldn’t speak to me.”

            Dad furrows his brows, befuddled. “I don’t know anything about that.” I believe him, because he’d be acting sheepish and apologetic right now if he did. “If you needed to talk, why didn’t you just come to the house?”

            “If I have to report a crime, my only way to get your attention is through unofficial means? That’s how the department runs?” I shut my eyes before Dad can reply. I need to get over my pride and hurt feelings. Golightly and Gundersen and Merlin knows who else need me to speak for them. God help them. Exhaling, I step back from the door. “It doesn’t matter. The aurors would laugh me out of the Ministry if I filed a report. Come in.”

            I walk back into the sitting room, retaking my seat. It’s still warm. Zamora rubs her face against my neck. I hold onto her for comfort.

            Dad comes to the doorway, and has a look around. “The place is looking well.”

            I try to remember the last time he was here. Probably last September. Lily had vanished again, and Dad showed up here looking for her. He started crying. It was awkward. I nod, accepting the compliment, and scratch Zamora’s back.

            Dad has a seat on the least comfortable chair, the one Granddad and Nan gave me when I moved in. I’ve only kept it from guilt. He flicks his robes back with a flourish, then leans forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. “What’s this about a crime?” he asks, holding my eyes.

            You have to try, Albus. You promised. A man is dead. A man asked for your help and now he’s dead. You’re not a child. Let go of old hurts for five fucking seconds and make the effort.

            “You won’t believe me,” I murmur.

            Dad smiles crookedly. “Believe it or not, Al, I’ve seen my share of peculiar things. Why don’t you try me?”

            I need to try.

            I look down at the ground and say, “Someone is stealing magic.”

 

I don’t tell him everything. I come close, though.

            I tell him as much as I can, right up until Golightly threw himself in front of the bus. It’s as far as I can get. I just keep my eyes downturned and my voice even and I refuse to let myself be concerned with what my father thinks. He won’t appreciate what a leap of faith I’m taking here, so the best thing to do is to forget all that.

            Gundersen, who’s in the wind. Golightly, whose body waits for someone to give a shit.

            Once I finish telling him about Golightly and the bus, I stop. I’ve told him what’s important. I should see what he thinks before admitting that I stole Golightly’s corpse. That is almost certainly illegal. Much as I’d like my father to be arrested as an accessory, I know he never would.

            I stop talking, but Dad doesn’t say anything. For a few seconds, I pet Zamora’s back, feeling my spine getting tense.

            Dad lets out a deep sigh. I look up, wincing, in time to see him rub his hands over his face. “Why did you—you shouldn’t have gone there alone.”

            Voice hoarse, I reply, “Do you think I don’t know that?”

            “You could have asked for help—”

            “I _did_ ask for help! I asked _you_ , and I asked _James_. What else was I supposed to do?”

            “You could have taken James—”

            I scoff, “Oh yeah, James, with his light touch. If I’d taken him, James probably would have thrown him under the wheels before Eric even had the chance.” Dad scratches at his hair, eyes shut. I gaze at him, and realize this has been for naught. “You don’t believe me. You think this is nothing.”

            Dad grinds his lips against one another, then says, “I think you’re jumping to conclusions—”

            Pushing Zamora out of my lap, I stand up. “Get out,” I tell him, walking towards the kitchen.

            “Al—would you listen to me?”

            “Why would I extend a courtesy to you that you won’t to me?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I can’t believe I let you do this to me again. _Again_. You act reasonable for five seconds, and I fall for it and think you’ll actually treat me like your son, but of course not. Joke’s on me, Dad. Well done.”

            Dad gets to his feet. “I’m trying to tell you what I honestly think. Would you prefer I just tell you what you want to hear?”

            “I want—my father—to say, ‘I believe you.’ Why is that so impossible for you?”

            “You have a theory, nothing more.” I start laughing again, and Dad insists, “Where’s your actual evidence? You have a coincidence, nothing more—and not even a coincidence that’s all that similar—”

            “Unbelievable.”

            “Show me the evidence, Albus. Where is it?”

            “Let me get this straight. Your whole life, you’ve acted on gut instinct. No matter what people told you, if it went against whatever hunch you had, then it was good as nothing. James is the exact same way, always going with his heart instead of his head. But one time, _one time_ , I come to you with all this circumstantial evidence, and a shitty situation that a man was willing to end his life over, and all of a sudden you need me to bring you the person who caused all this trauma with his hands covered in blood. Is that what you’re telling me?”

            “What I’m telling you is that you’re making a mistake.”

            I point between us. “ _This_ was the mistake.”

            “Albus, it’s just not possible. You know that.”

            “Magic’s not possible! Nearly the whole world thinks magic is a myth, but I cooked myself dinner with a spell, cleaned the room we’re standing in with the wave of a wand. How can you stand there and tell me that rules can never be rewritten?”

            “I’m just—I am worried that you’re going to do something you regret.” Dad talks over me as I protest. “You know this isn’t possible, and that’s why you’ve gone about this whole thing sideways. You haven’t done anything irreparable yet, because you’re a smart man, and you know, deep down, that this is nonsense. That’s why you came to your brother and I instead of filing an official report.”

            “If I file an official report, I could lose my job.”

            “Really, Albus? That’s the excuse you want to go with? If this was that important to you, you’d have filed a report, or gone to the papers. You know they would have snapped up anything you wanted to tell them, but you understand exactly what will happen. They’ll laugh at you. They’ll laugh at the silly story that’s come out of your mouth.”

            I shake my head, flabbergasted. “People are going to get hurt. I watched a man _die_. And you’re dismissing me.”

            Dad sighs. “Albus, I am sorry that happened to you, but you’re going to get yourself in trouble if you keep this up. I don’t want you to shoot yourself in the foot on this.”

            “Dad, did you hear what I just said? I watched a man die. I watched him die. Do you understand?” He just sort of frowns, and I shake my head again. “You can’t, can you.”

            “Albus, I’m trying to understand—”

            “It doesn’t matter to you that I watched a man die, because watching people die doesn’t matter to you. After all, you’ve watched people die your whole life, and if the famous Harry Potter had to get through that then we should all live up to your impossible standards.” He tries to argue, but I say loudly, “I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep without waking up in a cold sweat from the nightmares. I repeat what he said to me over and over in my head, trying to figure out what I could have said differently. And I am drowning under the weight of the guilt that I have over this, because I went in there not believing him. I was so arrogant that it never even occurred to me that he might be telling the truth. But he was, and no one listened to him, and now he’s dead. So tell me, why is it more important to you to make me feel like a disappointment than to spend a few minutes looking at some records? All it would take for you is a few minutes to get hold of the census, or any number of records, just to give me some kind of piece of mind.”

            Dad doesn’t say anything.

            I wave a hand, and the back door opens. “You need to leave.”

            “Albus—”

            “Tell me that you believe me. Or tell me that you don’t believe me, but you’ll check, just to make me feel better. Be my father for five minutes and _help me_.”

            I don’t know why my father can’t stand me. He’s let Lily back in his life after all her many trespasses. James is still loved, and he failed Dad in a way I never will. But my father can’t give me an inch, and for all my theories, there may never be any knowing why.

            Lowering my voice, I growl, “Get out.”

            Dad grimaces, then walks towards the door. He passes the threshold, and at the last second he starts to turn back. “I can’t make any promises—”

            Grabbing hold of the door, I tell him, “When someone important enough gets hurt and you have to cover your ass, let me know. I’m sure you’ll want to know where I put Golightly’s body.”

            I slam the door on him.


	9. Chapter 9

I knock on the door.

            Hugo stands behind his desk, leafing through pages with the tips of his fingers. The room is beautiful, with massive windows and pale grey walls. An incredible view of the city. The kind of place you can afford when you’re the magical world’s most famous travel writer.

            He looks up, and a smile spreads across his face. “There you are! I considered coming to your place, but I thought it might be awkward after I ignored you for a bit.” He puts his hands on his hips, dressed in some brightly coloured, oversized jumper, and ripped pants that must have cost a mint. All my friends are fashionable. I feel like a female bird of paradise, not nearly so glamorous as the people I love. “Do you forgive me? I admit, I was I bit irritated about what you did to Rose. Then I had to be in Barcelona a few weeks and I let things linger. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

            “It’s all right. A number of people were irritated with me. How was Spain?”

            “ _Boring_ ,” Hugo groans, coming around the desk. He sits on the edge, crossing his arms. “You’ve been there once, you’ve been more than enough times. I’m trying to make a mountain from a mole hill for this article. The place doesn’t even have decent monsters.”

            “It’s not fun for you unless some terrible creature tries to murder you, isn’t it.”

            “Absolutely not. Come in, come in.” I slip into his office, taking a seat on a round grey chair. Hugo fiddles with a pendant around his neck, one I’ve never seen before. “I was all excited to meet a cuegle, you know, save a baby or something, burnish my myth, but I get there and—” Hugo stops abruptly. Narrowing his eyes, he leans forward to have a closer look at me. “What’s wrong?”

            “Finish your story. I love to hear about your adventures. Much as I might poke fun.”

            Frowning, Hugo says, “The cuegle, he was a lovely chap. We had a few beers together. He’d never stolen a child in his life. You know, he even loved holly and oak, and that’s supposed to kill the buggers. Not a story at all. Now tell me what’s happened.”

            I’m tired. It’s been weeks and weeks, and I’ve had so little sleep. It’s nearly June, and I am alone. I feel like my life is unravelling at the seams, and I can’t continue like this.

            “You’re the last person I’m going to tell this to,” I say. “I have asked for help, over and over. I’ve gone to people I knew would never help me, because they’re the people with the power to actually do something about it. They’ve all said that I’m making things up. That I’m seeing connections where there are none. And I’ve thought that they were all being pricks because that’s just the way they are, because I rub people the wrong way. But I trust you, Hugo. So I need to tell you something impossible, and if you tell me you don’t believe me, then I’ll know they were right. I made a promise to not let this go, but that might have been premature, if I’m just insane. I need to know if you think I’m wrong.”

            I don’t expect him to make fun. Hugo cracks jokes in nearly all occasions, but when it really counts he can be serious. Hugo nods, holding my eyes. “All right.”

            Dejected, I tell him, “What if I told you someone was stealing magic from the homeless?”

            He doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at me, not even blinking. Then Hugo says, “What?”

            “I see all the admission reports that come through the hospital. I see patterns that other people aren’t privy to, and I found two people, very much the same, who had their magic stolen. No one believed them, and they were just thrown out on the street. But it seemed strange, so I tracked down the one man and…and he killed himself in front of me.”

            “ _What_?” Hugo pushes himself off the desk. He grabs a chair, pulling it up in front of me, and sits down. “Are you okay?”

            He’s the first person in my family to look at me with concern. To look at me like something terrible has happened to me, and he’s ready to hear what I need to say.

            “No,” I say, my voice small. “I’m not.”

            Hugo pauses, then reaches out and takes my hand. “Albus—why didn’t you—no. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I should have been here, I should have been around so you could talk to me—”

            I squeeze his hand tight enough that he stops talking. Swallowing, I whisper, “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. I’m sorry I made you upset in the first place. It’s okay.” I pull my hand away from his.

            “You really think—you think someone is stealing magic?”

            “I don’t think it. I know it. I have no concrete evidence, because every time I try to find it, it’s been stolen, or I’m not allowed to look at it, and then people turn around and ask me why I can’t prove it and they say I’m being ridiculous. But I know it’s true. I know it’s true, and no one believes me.”

            I pass a hand over my hair. My hand is shaking. It’s lack of sleep. A lack of a lot of things.

            “I believe you,” Hugo says.

            I look at him, not comprehending. “What?”

            Hugo repeats, “I believe you.” He raises his shoulders. “I’ve never known you to make up stories. You’re honest to the point of destroying people’s feelings, and you’re the most cynical man I’ve ever met. If you’re convinced—then _of course_ I believe you.”

            For the first time since this mess started, I come close to weeping. It’s only for a few seconds. A strain around the back of my eyes, a tug at my throat.

            “Oh,” I say.

            “Did you really think I wouldn’t believe you? You’re my cousin. You’re one of the best mates I’ve ever had.” Hugo punches my knee, smiling. “You git.”

            “But I’m telling you something impossible.”

            “Impossible? Mate, I’ve been all over the world. I’ve seen things that you’d _never_ believe. Do you know, in Malaysia, I saw a man _give_ magic to a Muggle.”

            “That’s not possible.”

            “Neither’s stealing magic, but apparently that’s a thing now as well.” A crease forms between his brows, and Hugo says, “It’s permanent, then? Someone could steal a witch or wizard’s power for good?”

            “I don’t know. There’s a world of things I don’t know.”

            “The thought of it, though…” He shudders involuntarily. “I don’t know what I’d do without my magic. How would I even—ugh. It’s like the inside of my brain is itching, just considering it. No wonder someone topped themselves over it.” Hugo sticks a hand in his hair, thinking. “It’s just the homeless so far?”

            “Yeah.” A funny look crosses his face. “What?”

            Hugo says, “Something like this—wouldn’t you use it on your enemies? A spell or potion or whatever this is, it could destroy a person. So why is it being used on people no one cares about? Unless they’re just some absolute fiend who gets their jollies attacking the weak.”

            I’ve considered this. “I’ve wondered….perhaps they’re test subjects. People who won’t be missed, who’ll be laughed at.”

            Hugo’s face goes slack. “Whoever this person is—they could turn the most powerful people in the country to Squibs.” Hugo sits back, dazed.

            “ _Yes_ ,” I say, beyond grateful that he understands it. Hugo props up his head, disturbed. “What are you thinking?”

            Blinking, Hugo says, “Honestly? Azerbaijan.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “Did I ever tell you about Azerbaijan?” I shake my head. Hugo sighs. “A year and a half ago, I went there for a story about the witches of the Caucasus. There’s a huge population of witches and wizards in the Azerbaijani section of the mountains. They’ve been there for centuries, intermarrying, doing everything by the old traditions. Muggle borns, they accept them, not an issue. But Squibs?” Hugo doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “They test all the children for magic when they’re first born. That’s not fool proof, of course, so they wait again until they’re five to officially test them. But the children where it wasn’t clear from the first, they’re not given names. You’re not considered a person unless you have magic. Muggle borns, they’re celebrated because they’ve become better than their ancestors. Squibs, though…there’s nothing worse to be than a Squib. If they find out a child is a Squib, they’re no longer a person. They’re an animal. An animal that brings bad luck. So the community gets together and they have a ritual killing.”

            “Fuck that.”

            “Witches and wizards hate Squibs, Albus. They’ll murder them. They’ll segregate them. And if they find out that any one of them could become one at a moment’s notice? They will lose their minds. They’ll take it out on people who already can’t protect themselves.” Hugo takes a deep breath. “This could get really, really ugly.”

            “So…what do I do?”

            “First we have to prove it’s even happening.” Hugo sits taller. “I need you to give me everything you have. I need to know everything you know. Your heart’s in the right place, but you don’t have many allies. I do. Between Mum and Tim? I’ll burn a hole to the center of this.”

            I nod, revived. “I can do that.”

            Hugo gets up, striding over to his desk. “I have contacts that we should—” He stops, then stands up straight. “Wait. Where’s Scorpius in all this?”

            I deflate.

 

Hugo sets another pint down before me, retaking his seat. We’re in some old Muggle pub, but they all knew Hugo when we walked in, which is par for course. Hugo always knows the strangest people.

            I take a few swallows of the fresh pint. The beer in this place is actually quite excellent. I’ll probably find myself back here.

            Hugo says, “This is one of those situations where I’m glad I don’t feel desire. At least not in the way most people do.”

            “You should be grateful. It’s shit.”

            “He really hasn’t spoken to you. This whole time.”

            “Not a word. Not a letter. I can’t believe I miss his stupid blind bird.”

            “That doesn’t sound like him. Do you want me to say something to him?”

            “Please don’t. Then my humiliation would truly be complete.”

            Hugo wraps an arm around his drink, looking perturbed. “I just can’t get over it. I always thought when he got it through his thick head that he’d just…be fine.”

            “Well, I always expect the worst, so this has worked out exactly as I imagined it would. No, I take that back. It could be worse if he took up again with your sister.”

            “I don’t see that happening any time soon. Scorpius—he’s always had the largest soft spot when it came to you. I don’t understand why he’s being so terrible about this.”

            “Does being asexual also prevent you from understanding the term ‘gay panic’?”

            “I refuse to believe that’s what it is. He adores you. He’s never cared that you’re gay.”

            “There’s a world of difference between accepting someone being queer and knowing that person is queer for you.”

            “There has to be something else going on,” Hugo insists. “You know him. You _know_ him.”

            I shrug. “I don’t know anything right now.” He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. How’s your sister?”

            Hugo rolls his eyes. “Speaking of people who hate Squibs. She and Mum aren’t speaking, and Rose is angry that Dad’s taken Mum’s side, so Rose isn’t speaking to him either. I’m not even sure she’s speaking to me, come to think of it.”

            “Would you want to be?”

            “I don’t know. Do you remember, when we were little kids, and we were all best friends? You and me and Rose and James and Lil. Running around out back of the Burrow, playing games, building forts. Playing with all the Muggle bits in Granddad’s shed. And now—I think you and I are the only ones who even speak to each other on a regular basis.”

            “Childhood friendships are a matter of proximity only. As soon as there’s more options, people abandon one another.”

            “Ray of sunshine you are. Lil and I were so close when we were little. I was closer with her than I was with Rose. Now?” Hugo exhales glumly.

            “She been around asking for money?”  

            “Yeah. Something about being evicted. I told her I couldn’t help, and she yelled at me and stormed off. You too?”

            “Exactly the same.”

            “What do you think will happen to her?”

            “I think she’ll die. Either that or it’ll be twenty years from now and I’ll walk over some tattered looking woman on the street who’s lying in her own sick, and I won’t realize it’s my sister.”

            Neither of us propose solutions. At this point, we know there’s nothing we can do to change Lily, or to make things better. She has to figure this out on her own. I’ve accepted that she may never.

            “I miss it.”

            “You miss what?”

            Hugo lifts his shoulders. “Us. All of us together, being a family. I know that time in our life is gone, but I find it really difficult to believe it will never improve.”

            “Lower your expectations,” I advise. “That being said, you still have me.”

            Hugo smiles crookedly. “Cheers to that.” We lift our glasses and down more beer. Hugo taps his finger against his glass, then says, “Do you think Scorpius is all right?”

            Groaning, I drop my head on my arms. “Can we please not talk about—”

            “I can’t believe that he just up and stopped speaking to you for weeks unless something was genuinely wrong.”

            Straightening, I tell Hugo, “Then you’re being naïve. Because he has.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “People do insane things when it comes to love and sex.”

            “I appreciate that on a level you never will, Albus.”

            “Tell me. Tell me what it looks like from your point of view.”

            Grimacing, Hugo rubs at his stubble, then crosses his arms. “Sex?”

            “Sure.”

            “I think about it like a Yorkshire pudding.”

            “Sorry?”

            “I understand that people like Yorkshire puddings. I can look at one, and tell that it’s well made, and that for someone else, it might be incredibly appetizing. For me? It’s so bland that it’s not worth bothering over. And they both involve mouths and English people making grunting noises and occasionally there’s a liquid involved.” Hugo puts up his hands. “It holds no interest for me.”

            “When Scorpius broke up with Rose, you immediately started in on me to tell him.”

            “Yeah, because I was teasing. I never thought you’d actually do anything about it, and I was trying to irritate you. And the world is so obsessed with romance and sex that it’s just easier to laugh about it than say I don’t understand why people are getting so peculiar over it.” Hugo frowns, and says, “To be perfectly honest with you, Albus? The whole thing just seems…wet and undignified and nonsensical. Romantic love is like friendship except people lose all sense of proportion. And people stay together when they aren’t even friends anymore, so they can keep throwing their bodies against one another, or they stay together when they hate each other and aren’t even interested in sex, so—” Hugo throws his hands up. “I don’t get it.”

            I’m smiling. “Well, when you put it like that, it makes a great deal more sense.”

            “You’re just about the only person in my life who never told me to try it once to see if I liked it. I don’t need to eat dog shit to know if I’d enjoy it. No, now I’m being hyperbolic. Love and sex make so many people happy. Dog shit pleases very few people.”

            “Only the freaks.”

            “Do you remember, my fourth year, those two Ravenclaws were following me everywhere, trying to figure out if I was straight or gay, and everyone made such fun of me for it. Making wagers to see who I’d choose, the boy or the girl. Do you remember what you did?”

            “As I recall, I might have said something to them.”

            “In the Great Hall. You stood behind them and said at the top of your lungs, ‘If you perverts don’t leave my cousin alone, I’ll feed you to the fucking merpeople.’ Then the girl tried again and you dragged her into the Black Lake. You did three weeks of detention for that.”

            “It was only two.”

            “They left me alone after that. You’ve always met me where I am. That’s a good quality to have.”

            “Cheers.”

            Hugo leans to the side briefly, then says, “Tim just walked in.” I groan, having another sip.

            Tim joins us a moment later, all smiles and perfect teeth. “There you are. I thought you were working on your article til 6.”

            “Change of plans,” Hugo replies.

            Tim grabs me by the shoulder, giving me a shake. “Where have you been, you depressing sod?”

            “Burying bodies,” I answer dryly.

            “Then you’ll have worked up a sweat. Let’s celebrate by getting sloppy, shall we, lads?” He grins and walks off towards the bar.

            I look at Hugo and ask, “What do you _see_ in him?”

            Weakly, Hugo says, “Hidden depths?”

            I snort. “I think you’re mistaking the reflection on the water’s surface for depth.”

            Hugo lowers his voice. “Let’s keep the other bit between you and I for now, all right? Tim’s a good bloke, but he’s not exactly discreet.”

            I tap my glass to his. “You read my mind.”

            I sigh when I hear Tim holler, “Sweetheart! I’ll have a Slippery Nipple!”

            “Did that idiot just order butterscotch schnapps?”

            Hugo responds, “ _Depths_.”

 

We get drunk and go dancing.

            I don’t get sloppy, but I get giddy. Tim peels off from us to make out with a girl whose name he doesn’t know. Hugo and I stay on the dance floor, leaving only to grab quick shots in an effort to make this feeling last as long as possible.

            I am in my element here. I can shed my skin and move my body to the beat, can feel the sweat pour down my back. I can disappear, disappear, disappear.

            I started dancing when I left Hogwarts and made my own way into the Muggle world. Magic folk haven’t invented a new dance since the 1800s. Muggles have a million kinds of dances, and best of all they let you dance however the hell you like.

            So I vogue. I pop and lock. I bounce. I grab Hugo and swing him around as he drunkenly shrieks. I grind with a man ten years my senior who has an erection but is still more interested in dancing and I fall in love with him a little.

            I dance with whoever I please. I touch more people in an hour on the dance floor than I would in a month out in the real world. I feel completely at home under the flashing lights, surrounded by people, music so loud I can hear no voices.

            When Hugo gets tired and needs a break, I continue to dance. I’m so warm. Impossibly warm. I peel my t-shirt over my head, stuffing it in my back pocket. I dance with my skinny body bared to the world. I’m ecstatic.

            It takes me a million years to get tired enough to seek refreshment. Tim must have already got his rocks off, because he’s sitting at a table with Hugo. They’re deep in conversation, though Merlin only knows what they have to talk about. I grab Tim’s water bottle off the table, having a swig.

            Tim gestures to my bare chest and asks, “You been working out?” I flip him off and drop into one of the seats, putting my feet up on a chair. Tim puts his arm along the back of my chair, leaning closer. “So you declared your love for Scorpius!”

            I glare at Hugo, and he shrugs, unapologetic.

            Tim squeezes my shoulder. “That’s hilarious! How drunk were you to do that?”

            I shove his arm off. “It’s not funny.”

            Contrite, Tim says, “No, no, of course not. Seriously, though—how drunk were you?”

            “Not drunk enough,” I mutter, hunching my shoulders.

            We all look up at some raucous laughter. Two men, so intoxicated they’re barely standing, are holding each other up, howling. They’re also pointing at Hugo.

            “Look at his hair!” the one wheezes.

            Hugo and I look at one another, sharing an eye roll. Having to deal with the jeers of drunk white men is just our lot in our life. Tim, though, he of the blonde hair and blue eyes, says crossly, “Piss off.”

            “That your natural colour?”

            “Can you believe,” Hugo says to me, “that if I used my wand on either of them, I’d be convicted of Muggle baiting?”

            “It’s a travesty,” I agree.

            “Did your mother fuck an Irishman?” one of them jibes.

            Hugo purses his mouth. Oh dear. Hugo is very kind, very easy going. But if someone starts in on my aunt, well…Hugo’s also never been afraid to throw a punch.

            They see that they’ve hit a nerve, and the one closest to him leans forward. “Your jig mother find the pot of gold?” he sneers.

            Hugo slams his hand on the table, preparing to stand. But before he gets a chance, Tim’s fist comes flying out of nowhere. He clocks the man in the face, nearly falling over himself in the process. The second man trips, dropping on his arse.

            Tim turns around, pumping his arms in the air. “I PUNCHED A RACIST!” He tears his shirt open, buttons popping every which way, then roars at the top of his lungs.

            I laugh in disbelief.

            Hugo is suddenly pulling me up. “We need to go!”

           

We drag Tim out of the bar as he keeps shouting, “I punched a racist!” We’re all laughing, drunk and dizzy. Hugo side-alongs us away, to some empty country road, far from people and noise.

            Tim howls at the sky. “I am an excellent ally!” he crows.

            “Yeah, the way to be a good ally is to get really self congratulatory about it,” Hugo says, then slaps Tim on the ass. Yelping, Tim starts chasing him down the lane.

            I take out my shirt, pulling it over my head. It’s considerably colder out here than it was in the bar. I’m giggling a bit. Fucking Tim. He’s not that bad, when it comes down to it. Lacking in all self awareness and common sense, but still a decent enough fellow.

            This reminds me of the time we were all arrested. The four of us were at some party in Leeds and things got a bit out of hand. Tim was being chased by the man who owned the place after going down on the man’s girlfriend, and we found ourselves facing off against a house full of drunk, belligerent Muggles. We may have resorted to wands.

            Of course, when three of your parents work for the Ministry, and a fourth is one of the richest men in England, things tend to go in your favour.

            Scorpius was brilliant that night. He received not one, but two, black eyes on my account. Sitting in the jail cell, eyes swollen shut, Scorpius said with a smile, “That was all a good bit of fun, wasn’t it?”

            He should have been here tonight.

            I slow, some of my levity trickling away. It’s not a night out unless Scorpius is with us. All my best memories of nights out with the lads involve him.

            It’s been weeks. Weeks without him.

            Because I’ve been waiting for him. If I want to see him, I should just _see_ him. Maybe he’s been waiting for me to say something. This has all been so awkward that perhaps he doesn’t know what to do.

            Yes. _Yes_.

            “I have to go,” I tell the others.

            They stop, Hugo putting Tim in a headlock. “You what?” Tim wheezes.

            I disapparate.

           

Of course, the second I apparate to the Manor, there’s a startled cry, then the crash of glass. I stare at Scorpius’ father, eyes wide.

            I’ve come out just beyond the front steps. Mr. Malfoy was sitting on the steps, presumably with a glass of wine. Only now his beautiful white shirt has a crimson stain down the front, and there’s shards of glass on the ground.

            He gazes down at the stain as I feel myself shrink, then raises his eyes. “ _Yes_ , Albus?” Mr. Malfoy snaps.

            “Sorry! Sorry, I was—sorry. I’m drunk.”

            “I would have never guessed,” he says acidly. I cringe, and Mr. Malfoy stares at me. Far too long passes. “Albus.”

            “Yes sir?”

            “I do not do my own laundering, nor do I relish the notion of our charming house elf berating me for soiling one of my best shirts. If you have a good reason for being here, perhaps you should spit it out before I put you to work in the laundry.”

            “No. No, I was—I came to—I just wanted to—”

            I gesture up at the house. Then I stop.

            What am I doing? Scorpius doesn’t want to speak to me. He has more pluck than the lot of us put together. If he wanted to see me, he would have. I’m putting myself where I’m not wanted.

            Letting my arm fall, I say, “No. No reason. I should go.”

            A crease forming between his brows, Mr. Malfoy says, “Scorpius is home. Would you like to go in to see him?”

            Stepping back, I shake my head. “No. No, that’s all right. Thank you. Sorry about your shirt.”

            I turn away, feeling ridiculous. Show up drunk at Scorpius’ house. Brilliant plan.

            “Albus.” Reluctant, I look back. Mr. Malfoy has gotten to his feet. His head is cocked as he studies me. “Are you sure you’re all right? You know you’re welcome to come in. You’re always welcome here.”

            I smile tiredly. “Some other time.” Before I can apparate, I make a rash decision. “I’ve never told you this—but I always wished you were my father.”

            I see his startled expression, for a split second, before I disappear.


	10. Chapter 10

I’ll all for Squibs protesting whenever and wherever they like, but I’m a little too hungover for it this morning.

            They’ve blocked the back entrance to St. Mungo’s. There are perhaps three dozen of them, all with their red and white pins and t-shirts, some of them with signs. They’ve chained themselves together—with actual chains—but there must be some magic involved as well. The aurors are having a hell of a time trying to get them apart. I recognize a pair of witches I went to school with among the chained Squibs, shouting slogans with the rest.

            I mean, I could join the protest, but my head hurts too much for this nonsense.

            Rylance McTavish is right at the front of the crowd. He has one of those voices that travel even without the help of a wand, a burning sense of righteousness, and it probably helps that he’s the most attractive Squib in all of England. I heard that he does some modelling for Muggle publications, but that has yet to be confirmed or denied. There are photographers from the papers taking pictures, and I imagine most of them will be of Rylance.

            “WHAT DO WE WANT?”

            “ACCESS TO MAGICAL HEALTHCARE!”

            “WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”

            “NOW!”

            One of the aurors pleads, “For pity’s sake, McTavish—you’re holding up the healers from getting to work.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry,” Rylance says sarcastically, “but you’ve murdered all the nice Squibs. Now you’re left with the inconvenient ones.”

            I can’t help but smirk. I’ve heard him use the same line at a number of different protests in different iterations, but he’s too handsome not to enjoy.

            Rylance catches sight of me through the crowd. “Albus! Why are you standing over there with the sheep?”

            The cameras turn in my direction, bulbs cracking and flashing. I wince at the noise, and call back, “Because I’m bloody hungover and your revolution is making my head hurt.”

            “Oh, grow up and get over here.”

            A few aurors turn to glare at me. My father’s minions are not going to let me jump in with the rest. “Sorry, love. Looks like the fascists win this round.”

            I raise my coffee to him, and Rylance says, “Come round the center sometime soon! We could exploit your family for publicity!”

            He winks at me, and I have to look away, trying not to blush. The man is straight. He’s straight, Albus. He’s very straight.

            I turn around and blow out a breath, walking around the side of the building. My head is pulsing. It’s my own fault. I got wasted without checking if I had hangover potion. All I had left in the cupboard was expired, and the last time I took expired hangover potion, it put me out in green spots for a month.

            There are aurors all over the place—probably looking for an excuse to get violent—so I just put my head down and try to ignore them.

            “Albus.”

            I look up, startled. James is standing with some of his former colleagues. I look from side to side, then ask, “Are you speaking to _me_? In public?”

            He frowns, then takes a few steps towards me. “Going to work?”

            “No, I’m having a boil lanced. A really rancid one. Would you like to see it?” James scratches at his forehead, and I sigh. It’s no fun if he won’t play along. “You have an appointment?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well—good luck with that.”

            We stand here a moment. Does he want something? He could have just kept his mouth shut, like every other time we cross paths.

            Hesitantly, James says, “Do you have plans for lunch?”

            Let’s pour salt in _that_ wound. “No.”

            “Do you—want to get lunch, then?”

            I stare at him.

            “Okay,” I say.

            James nods, a bit unsure. “Okay. I’ll, ah—wait for you out front. Noon?”

            “Sure.”

            “Okay. I’ll—see you then.”

            I step back, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it doesn’t, so I continue walking.

            Great. Now I’m going to spend the next three hours fretting over what’s wrong.

 

Neither of us say anything. We walk through the park with our kebabs, silently eating.

            We’re in an empty park so far from central London that I’m not sure it counts as the city anymore. It’s the middle of the day, with no people about. No children, no dog walkers. Just me and my brother.

            Eventually, James remarks, “Remote.”

            “You’d already spoken to me in public once this year. I thought that if we tried for a second time on the same day, it might end in bloodshed.” Frowning, I glance down at my kebab. The vegetables are quite wilted.

            “What is this sauce?”

            “Red.”

            “That’s exactly what it tastes like. Someone’s idea of red.”

            We stop at a bin and toss our kebabs in. Without anything to hold onto, there’s no way to pretend we’re distracted. We both stand here, avoiding one another’s gaze.

            I can’t bear it. “What did you want to talk about?”

            James runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, then he looks right at me. “Someone I know got in touch, wanted me to know something.” I raise my shoulders, waiting. “They said they saw you outside Sian Tolliver’s place.”

            To my credit, I don’t even flinch. “Who?”

            “Oh, come on, Al.”

            “Who’s Sian Tolliver?”

            James is shaking his head. “Can we not fuck around on this? Tolliver is a soulless prick, and whatever you’re in for with him, it’s not worth it.”

            “I still don’t know who you’re talking about. Why don’t you describe him to me?”

            “Al—”

            “Is he attractive? Could be some one night stand whose name I never got. I’ve fucked about a quarter of the available men in magical England, after all.”

            “What, am I supposed to be embarrassed because you sleep around? I don’t care what you do with your cock, little brother. I care that you’re doing Merlin knows what with a man who’s got his fingers in so many scandals that he’s started using his toes.”

            “What is it you think I’m up to, exactly?”

            “You hoard information. And you’re up there in St. Mungo’s—I think you’re selling him people’s secrets, is what you’re doing.”

            “Wow. Your faith in me is heartening.”

            “Don’t act pissy about this. We both know you’re not above it.”

            “We don’t know anything. And you certainly don’t. Is that it?”

            Growling, James says, “This was a courtesy call, Albus. My friend didn’t have to let me know about this, but she told _me_ instead of telling our boss, and I doubt the next person will be that kind.”

            “Please. Dad is your boss, and even if I was doing what you say, he’s covered up far less.”

            James puts his hand to his forehead, trying to hold his temper. “Can we be honest with each other? For once?”

            “Honest? Really?”

            “Yes, really.”

            I shrug. “If we’re being honest with each other, if we’re looking out for one another, why don’t you tell me about the night Lily saw you?”

            “What?”

            “The night she saw you buying drugs from one of her dealers.”

            James goes still. He waits too long to speak, and when he does, he squeezes his eyes shut as he struggles to speak. “Th-That’s—p-preposterous.”

            I gaze at him, then yelp, “You must be fucking joking!” I turn and start walking away from him.

            “Al!”

            “No!” I yell over my shoulder. “I’m not doing this with you too! I’ve done this a million times with Lily, I’m not bloody doing it with you!”

            Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to deal with the sudden violence in my stomach. I don’t know if it’s the kebab or the thought of having another addict for a sibling.

            James jogs to catch up with me. He grabs me to try and stop me, but I throw him off.

            “Listen—I did it. I did. All right? Just some levity. I’m an auror, Albus, and I’ve done plenty of busts and I know which drugs kill you and which don’t, and I needed to try something, anything, to make any of this feel—better! Okay? I shouldn’t have done it, but I did, and I enjoyed it, but that doesn’t make me Lily. Do you hear me?”

            Shutting down, I look away to the trees. “Fine.”

            “No, I mean it! Would you just listen to me? I don’t need you standing there and judging me when—” James goes silent all of a sudden. When he speaks again, he sounds a bit amazed. “You did it again.”

            “Did what?”

            Brow growing heavy with anger, James says, “The exact same thing you do any time someone dares put you in your place. You turn around and make it all about them, and you do it as dirty as possible to make things blow up, so that you don’t have to hear how you fucked up! I can’t believe I fell for it again.”

            For a moment, I feel a pang of guilt, but it’s replaced by annoyance. “I didn’t do anything wrong—”

            “Why do you have to be like this? I’m trying to protect you!”

            I let out a bitter snort. “Protect me? When have you _ever_ protected me?”

            “Your whole life!”

            “Are you high right now? You never protected me.”

            “All through school—”

            “You were _miserable_ to me the whole time we were there! If you weren’t ignoring me, you were tormenting me!”

            “I had to! To fit in! All right? Is that what you want to hear? You never made it easy on yourself, and you’ve always been so smug, so superior, and it could have been so much worse than you even know, and I did the best I could by you.”

            “You broke my arm!”

            “I was a child!”

            “So was I! I was a little boy, and I was all alone, and you’re my brother and you were supposed to take care of me, but you didn’t, you never did, because all you’ve ever been is a bully.” Disgusted, I tell him, “You really lived up to your namesake, James. He was a bully as well—”

            James throws a punch.

            Only he’s doing it with his left arm, and he’s off balance, and it’s all too easy for me to simply step backwards. James swings around, off his feet, and falls hard on his side.

            Leaning forward, I say, “Yeah, typical James, always thinking with your fists. Or should I say fist?”

            James struggles onto his rear, out of breath. “He _died_ —”

            “We _all_ die, you git,” I snap. “The second you get it out of your head that the Potters are perfect, the better.”

            He pushes himself to his feet, enraged. “How dare you! He died trying to protect Dad—”

            “They could have run! They could have gone to Texas or someplace half around the world, but he was puffed up like you, thinking he could fight the Dark Lord! He was 21 years old, and he thought he’d be a hero. Dad might have illusions about these famous people we should live up to, but pull the wool off your eyes—”

            “You vicious little prick.”

            “Vicious? Vicious is giving your children no hope of making their own future. Vicious is saddling them with the responsibility of reaching for a goal they can never achieve, being people who’ve already died!”

            “Here we go again! It’s always Dad, isn’t it? Just let it go!”

            “You let go! Let go of all these expectations before you lose your other arm or your head!”

            “I’m proud to have my name! I’m proud to live up to the example Dad and his dad set—”

            “Then you’re an idiot, because we are not special. We’re not special, we’re not chosen, we’re just people, James, and you’re going to get killed chasing this stupid dream.”

            “What bloody name would you have preferred? What name, Albus? What would have made you happy?”

            “Fred!” I shout at my brother.

            James stops. He’s still pale, but I don’t have the patience to treat him with kid gloves. He’s worked me up, so he gets what he deserves.

            “Have you honestly never stopped to think about it? Why are we all named for _his_ dead? As if Mum didn’t lose people, like she didn’t see her brother die, and why am I not named for him? Or you? If it was all fair and meant to honour the dead, then why don’t you have Fred Weasley’s name? Why do I have the middle name of some creep who stalked our grandmother? He’s trying to replace all the people who died that he never knew, and if you don’t think that’s damaged us, then you’re not paying attention!”

            “I am not damaged!”

            “Yes you are!”

            “I’m my own man! It has nought to do with names or—or Dad, or Granddad, or—you’re just fucked up, and you want to pretend like we are as well, but it’s only you!”

            “Yeah, well, I’ve never murdered anyone,” I murmur.

            “What did you just say?”

            Hissing, I repeat, “ _I’ve_ never murdered anyone.”

            James’ hand is curled into a fist. If he still had two arms, I would have been beaten to a pulp by now. “You don’t know what you’re taking about, you miserable shit—”

            “I don’t? Do you really think I don’t know? I have access to anything I like in that hospital, so I’ve read the records, and I saw her! I saw her, James!”

            He falls back.

            I can’t stop now. “It was all your fault. They told you she was trapped in that thing, and O’Twyer told you to wait until the experts got there, but oh no, not you! Not James Potter, famous auror, son of Harry Potter. You went ahead and nearly killed yourself and you _crushed_ that woman. And I saw her, James, when you were up in your hospital bed, I went down into the morgue, and they let me, because I’m Harry Potter’s son too, and I saw that poor woman, because that thing was like glass, and I could see her face and her blood and I could see how terrified she’d been the moment you killed her. If Dad hadn’t made this whole mess go away, you would be in Azkaban for negligent homicide, so fuck your sob story, fuck your justifications, fuck you and your stupid insistence on being what Dad wants, because it’s getting people fucking killed! You should count your bloody blessings it was only your arm, because if I had my way, it would be you in that box, you loathsome, violent toad!”

            I finally pause to take a breath. And that’s when I realize James is on the verge of tears. He’s trembling all over. His fingers have uncurled, lying loosely at his side. He stares at me, eyes brimming, and I can’t remember the last time I saw my brother weep.

            Immediately, I know I’ve gone too far. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

            He turns and starts walking away from me.

            _Fuck_. “James, I didn’t mean it—James, I’m sorry—”

            He apparates.

 

When I get home, I go straight to the toilet. I lock Zamora out, which she is quite vocally displeased about. Turning on the water, I lift handful after handful of cool water to my face, trying to rid myself of this terrible feeling.

            I’m a bad brother.

            James hasn’t been much of a brother to me either, but he can’t hurt people the way I do. He was right. Whenever someone calls me out, I immediately go to the nuclear option. I have a knack for finding people’s most sensitive points, and then jabbing my finger into the wound. I doubt he told me about Sian solely from the kindness of his heart—he must have gotten a bit of a thrill, calling me out—but he _was_ doing me a favour, and I chose the harshest response.

            I look up at myself in the mirror as I dry off my face. I look miserable. Good. I should.

            Glancing down at my jacket, I pull my wand from my inside pocket. I point it at my face, and I murmur, “ _Revelio_.”

            My eyes change back to their natural colour for the first time in years. Bright green. They look almost preternatural on my face. They’re my father’s eyes, my sister’s eyes, my brother’s eyes.

            I sit down on the lid of the toilet, sighing, rubbing my thumbs over my wand. I really bollocksed this up.

            I shouldn’t have mentioned the woman. Who has a name, of course—Marnie Claren. She was 36, with a wife and two children, and a secret life selling black market potions. She crossed the wrong person, and they put her in a blinder’s box, which I’d never heard of until this whole mess with James. You put a person in, and the whole thing goes black. You can’t see the person inside, nor hear them, but they can hear and see out just fine. They can survive in there for years, even decades, without food or water. It’s devilishly tricky to extract them. If you do the wrong thing, you not only kill them, but you curse yourself as well.

            Her wife called the aurors, and James went to the house. His partner recognized what it was right off—she’s always been smarter than James by yards—and made the call to the department for an expert curse breaker. They were told it would be two hours. And my brother, in his infinite wisdom, decided to try breaking it himself.

            My brother is a great many things. My father’s son, a decent Quidditch player, a passable speech giver. One thing he has never been, however, is careful.

            So the thing blew off his arm and killed Marnie Claren.

            I did go down to see her. I still don’t know why. James was unconscious in the Spell Damage Unit, and the place was filled with family. I moved to the parameters, scared and anxious, and I heard one of Dad’s underlings murmuring the story to him. He said that if James was anyone else’s son, he’d go before the Wizengamot for reckless disregard. The next thing I knew, I was marching to the morgue.

            I’d never been to the morgue before. I don’t remember much, because I didn’t get further than the door. I didn’t have to, because the cube was on the table closest to the exit. It was a meter by a meter, and it might have been black when James saw it, but it wasn’t now. The cube was clear as a window. She was stuck inside, like a fly in an ice cube. She had been frozen, the split second after it killed her. Rivulets of blood burst outwards. There were slits in her skin, and the whiteness of bone, where she had been crushed. Her hair floated behind her. She stared at me with one wide, horrified eye.

            My brother did that. I know he didn’t _mean_ to do it. But if he had stopped, just for one moment, and considered that his actions had consequences. Only he didn’t. James thought he was infallible, and a woman died, and he crippled himself for life.

            I love my brother. I don’t like him. I don’t even respect him. But I love him. I shouldn’t have said I wished it had been him instead. It was a wretched thing to say.

            I don’t know why we’re like this. No, that’s not exactly right. Half of me, the logical half, can’t figure out why two grown men behave like idiot children when they’re in close proximity. The other part of me, the part run solely by emotion and memory, understands perfectly.

            Everyone always tells me to let things go. It was so long ago, he’s changed, she’s changed, you can’t hold onto this forever. But my brother (and father) only pretend to let things go. They act like they’re only in the moment, but everything they do is coloured by the past. Like my father trying to resurrect the dead through his children, or my brother refusing to see me as anything other than an embarrassing Slytherin Squib. At least I’m honest. I don’t lie about holding on.

            The thought of doing this until we die, though—it’s exhausting. It’s numbing. We’ve been like this nearly fourteen years and show no signs of stopping.

            Not to mention Lily. My brain hurts just thinking about her. My little sister, who always annoyed me so much. Who I envied, for the way she would flit about, light as a melody, putting a smile on the face of anyone she met. Watching it all sour. Seeing all that lust for life becoming something grasping and uncontrolled.

            My family isn’t a family. We’re free agents, all of us bouncing about, and when we come into contact we damage one another more often than not. My brother didn’t need me to be my usual temperamental self today. He needed me to act like his brother, and I couldn’t even manage that.

            When I hear the knock at my front door, I’m not irritated. I’m _relieved_. Whoever it is, it’s likely to be someone I should apologize to, and I feel like apologizing in this moment. I hope it’s James. Or Mum, come to ask me what the hell I think I’m doing.

            Standing, I tuck my wand back into its pocket. Best I not have it in my hand. If things go poorly, I shouldn’t be armed. I open the door, having to push past Zamora. “Sorry, love,” I murmur. I need to see another human being. Just watch—it’ll be a delivery.

            I get to the front door, and I don’t even bother peeking out to see who it is. Eager for contact of any kind, I open the door wide.

            I go still, staring at Scorpius. After weeks, the sight of him is overwhelming. Even the scent of him, like cardamom cologne. He’s standing on the step, close to the door, eyes unblinking, looking anxious.

            “Hello,” I say, for want of anything else.

            He darts forward, taking my face in his hands, and kisses me on the lips.

            My heart stops. I actually feel it. Everything that typically moves inside my chest simply shuts off for a moment, and I’m too startled about that to react to anything else.

             Scorpius pulls back, and we stare at one another.

            Then he says, “This was a _terrible_ idea,” and flees.

            It takes me about two seconds to unstick myself. I find myself yelping, “Hey!”

            As he pushes through my front gate, I hear Scorpius saying frantically, “No no no no—”

            I chase after him.

            Scorpius is walking rapidly away from the house, arms pumping up and down as he tries to escape. “Get back here!” I shout. I hear him muttering to himself, and any second he’s going to apparate away from me, I just know it. Whipping out my wand, I point up at the sky. “ _Clupeus_!”

            There’s a red ripple through the air as I cast the anti-apparition charm. Like it or not, unless he thinks he can outrun me, Scorpius can’t make a quick exit.

            Spinning around, Scorpius says, “Take it down!”

            Flailing an arm back towards the house, I say, “What the hell was _that_?!”

            “Albus, take it down or I’m going to be sick—”

            “What is wrong with you? You don’t speak to me for weeks, you act like I don’t even exist, and then you show up here, and do _that_ , and now you just run off?”

            Scorpius bends forward, muttering to himself, “It’s just a scent, it’s just fish, there’s plenty of fish in the world—”

            “Shut up about the fucking fish and tell me why you’d do this!”

            “I don’t know!” Scorpius yells. “I don’t know, all right, so just take it down!”

            “Get _fucked_ with that! How could you do that to me? You think you can just show up here all confused, and treat me like it doesn’t matter—”

            “No! No, of course not—”

            “Rose dumps you, and you find out how I feel about you, and oh, guess I’ll do something wild and crazy while I’m on the rebound, and then never speak of it again, because oh, it’s so funny how Albus feels, it doesn’t actually mean shit to me—”

            “That’s not what—you’re twisting it!”

            “Twisting what?!”

            Scorpius screws up his face and cries out, “I don’t bloody know, so stop shouting at me!”

            “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I ruined your whatever the fuck this was by being inconvenient and having feelings about it instead of just letting you have your bicurious moment before pissing off back to Wiltshire!”

            “Stop it! You don’t know what’s going on, and you won’t let me think, and I can’t do a bloody thing when the world smells of carp!”

            I jab my wand at him and he quickly steps back. “It’s going to smell a lot worse than carp when I’ve finished with you!”

            Scorpius opens his mouth to protest, but then he looks past me at something. Growling, I look back over my shoulder.

            I could actually shit myself. An owl is barrelling towards us with an envelope in its beak. It’s Rose’s owl.

            “UnbeLIEVable!” I roar, as the owl pitches the envelope at Scorpius’ head. He fumbles it, and the envelope hits the ground. “Let me guess! She could sense a terrible disturbance in the psychic field. She sensed that you indulged some momentary perverse curiosity, and she’s decided she wants you back. That must be it, Scorpius, because that’s the only thing that could possibly finish off this shit sandwich.”

            Scorpius has pulled out the letter, eyes quickly scanning it. A change comes over him. In the span of seconds, it’s like he’s forgotten I’m even here.

            Furious, I snap, “What is it? What’s so important that—”

            I lift my head at the sound of more wings. There’s another owl coming at us. Only this time it’s Switchley. Dad’s owl. He’s big and black and practically a blight on the sky.

            Something is wrong.

            I start walking to meet the owl. He soars downwards, then perches atop a mailbox. Going to him, I untie the scroll from around his leg.

            Dad’s only written a few words. His handwriting is usually dreadful, but for some reason, his words all look relatively neat. Like he had to force himself still to write this note. It reads:

 

            _You were right. Hugo’s been attacked. They stole his magic_.

 

            I don’t realize that I’ve been staring until Scorpius says faintly, “I don’t understand.”

            “I do.” My arm falls to my side, and the note drifts from my fingers, coming down on a small puddle.

            I understand perfectly.

_  
_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ends Part One. Part Two will begin Sunday, June 9.


	11. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thank you everyone for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks. They mean the world to me. Also, just a heads up: chapters will be posting later in the day for the rest of the run. I don't have to be up for 5:30 AM like I did for Part One. Hallelujah.   
> Now--let's jump back in.

When we were young, if Hugo wasn’t inciting the wrath of bullies by defending the weak, he was running away from home.

            I can’t remember the first time he did it. It’s just something he’d _always_ done. We’d meet up with Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione, and they’d say in exasperation to Mum and Dad, “He did it again.”

            I remember the both of us in short pants, playing with a train set, and Hugo lisping through the gap in his teeth, “I made it all the way to town, and next time I’ll take a real train, and I’ll go to Kuala Lampur.”

            Hugo had a list of places he wanted to go, and they all went in a journal Mum gave him for his eighth birthday. Any time he learned of somewhere new, he’d spell it in, and within years it was bursting at the seams. He took it everywhere he went, opening it at any opportunity to tell us about the cuisine of Romania, or how to properly portkey to the North Pole.

            When Hugo was ten, he disappeared. They found him three days later in Portsmouth, about to board the ferry to Caen. “I would have made it too,” Hugo grumbled, when we were finally allowed to see him again. Then he brightened. “Next time I’ll try for Africa. Auntie Luna says I’ll love it there!”

            Four years later, he vanished from Hogwarts, and appeared in Mozambique a week later. With Aunt Luna.

            Once he was sixteen, my aunt and uncle finally accepted that there was only so much they could do to control him. So on his summer vacation, they let him loose in France. “How much trouble can he cause there?” Uncle Ron joked. Three arrests and a stolen quinotar later, Hugo returned to Hogwarts with a sunburn and his first book deal.

            My cousin has always fled the ordinary. He rarely stays in England for more than a few weeks at a time, because there’s so much to see and do and learn. He’s strained at the bit his whole life, eager to run from his roots at the first opportunity.

            Which is why it’s so bizarre to find ourselves apparating into the garden of the Burrow.

            I quickly move out of Scorpius’ hold. We didn’t really say anything to each other before coming here. Clearing my throat, I straighten my shirt, and look up at the house.

            The chimney is puffing out smoke, and I can see the outlines of multiple people moving inside the kitchen. But it’s still relatively quiet.

            “He left the hospital without anyone knowing,” Mum told me over fire call. “Hermione says he’s gone to your Granddad’s.”

            “Albus.” I look over. Lily rises from a bench, a cigarette between her fingers. I lift a hand in greeting. Without saying anything else, she walks right at me, then throws her arms around me.

            Surprised, I hold my arms out at my sides. I look at Scorpius over Lily’s head. With a grimace, he jerks his head down towards her. Awkwardly, I pat her on the back a few times.

            Lily steps backwards, sniffing. She’s red eyed, but not in the way she gets when she’s high. Regardless of the situation, she took the opportunity to wear some overpriced, flouncy white robes, as if we’re all going to a middle aged white woman’s destination wedding.

            “Who’s here?” I ask.

            She shakes her head. “Everyone. I had to take a break.”

            “Where’s Hugo?”

            Lily jabs her cigarette in an upwards direction. “Last I heard, up there somewhere. I need to sit. This is far too difficult without heroin.”

            She walks back to the bench, dropping down on it and hanging her head. Scorpius and I glance at each other, then head to the back door. I brace myself, then step inside.

            Well. This is a rogue’s gallery of dysfunction. Mum and James are seated at the table, as is Rose. Dad leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Aunt Hermione is trying to spell a stain off a mug. Uncle Ron is cooking, because that’s what Uncle Ron does when he’s upset.

            We all look at each other a moment, then Uncle Ron says gratefully, “Albus.” He puts down the pan and crosses the room to me. He wraps me up in a bear hug. That’s twice in a minute that someone has hugged me, and I don’t know how I feel about it.

            I give his side a pat. “Hi.”

            He lets me go, looking sleep deprived. And old. He looks at Scorpius and smiles. “Scorpius.” He holds out a hand.

            Scorpius shakes his hand, nodding. “Hi Ron.”

            “We’re happy to see you here.”

            “Where’s Granddad?” I ask.

            Mum says, “Having a nap. I think we rather overwhelmed him.”

            Glancing around, I say, “I thought Tim was supposed to be here.”

            There’s an uncomfortable silence, then James says, “He’s the one that got Hugo out of the hospital without anyone knowing. The general consensus was it might be better for him to leave.”

            I try to catch James’ eyes, but he avoids it. I don’t know where we stand, for any number of reasons. “So where’s Hugo?”

            Another pause. It’s Aunt Hermione who responds. “He’s locked himself in George’s old room,” she says, her voice ragged. Aunt Hermione is one of the most self possessed people I’ve ever known—you have to be if you’re Minister—but I can tell that she’s barely holding things together. “He won’t eat. He won’t speak to us.”

            I look around, and I understand exactly why. This gathering feels like a funeral. My cousin is not dead, and this is not the end of his life. They’re treating him like an invalid. Of course he doesn’t want to be around these people. Do they not know him at all?

            So I stride across the room, and lean out the doorway. I holler up the staircase, “OI! SQUIB! Get down here so we can grab a pint! Tabs for cripples are half off!”

            The room is shocked into silence.

            Aunt Hermione breaks it, gasping. She’s clutching the mug so tightly I think she might smash it in her fist. Rose pushes herself to her feet, aghast. “Do you think that’s funny? My brother is—”

            Everyone shuts up at the rapid sound of footsteps overhead. A door opens, and then Hugo comes bounding down the stairs.

            He’s greyish, with tired half moons beneath his eyes. Usually Hugo has a hint of a smile on his face, even in the most serious of situations. That’s vanished. Coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, he mutters, “Get me out of here. It’s not like I could apparate myself.” I gesture for him to move ahead of me, and Hugo walks around the table, head down, shoulders hunched, like I’ve never seen him before. Aunt Hermione steps towards him, and Hugo shies away. “No.”

            Hugo goes right to Scorpius, putting an arm around him. Scorpius gives him a jostle, saying, “Hey, mate.”

            Hugo shoves his feet into the shoes he left by the door. Scorpius and I loosely guard him from everyone else, who seem flabbergasted that he’s just going to leave.

            I keep a particular eye on Rose. She looks like she has something to say, like it’s just on the tip of her tongue. Glaring at her, I let her know that would be a bad choice.

            But she steps around the table, saying, “Hugo, I’m sorry—”

            He turns on her in a flash. “ _Don’t_.” Hugo points at her, for a moment too angry to even find the words. He’s quivering, he’s so upset. Hugo drops his arm, giving his head a shake. “If I’d been born this way, you would have never let me step inside Hogwarts.”

            “No—Hugo, it was never—of course I would have—”

            “Really?” Hugo dares her. “What, it’s different for me because I’m your brother? If I was anyone else’s brother, you wouldn’t give a damn. I’d be dirt under your feet just like the rest. You’re sorry? I doubt it, Rose. I doubt you’re sorry for a bloody thing.”

            He whirls around, and snaps at James and Dad, “And you two!” James jumps. Dad doesn’t even raise his eyes, a tic in his cheek. “You _knew_.” Hugo gestures back at me. “Albus warned you, he told you this could happen, and you did nothing! You laughed at him, and now I’m like this! I’m like this until I die because you refused to listen!” Hugo looks so disgusted he could spit. He gestures between Dad, James and Rose. “If the three of you are wishing it was you in my place, congratulations. That makes four of us.”

            Hugo spins and storms out, almost knocking over Scorpius in the process. Uncle Ron is staring at Dad, saying, “What’s he talking about?”

            Part of me would like to see their comeuppance. But I’d rather be with Hugo. I follow Scorpius out the door.

            “Albus.” I stop, inhaling through my nose, and look back. Dad has come after me. He stops, and after a moment, he says steadily, “You were right. You were right, and I should have listened.”

            I shrug. “And?”

            He grits his teeth, then says, “I need to know where you buried the body.”

            I gaze at him. “The backyard.”

            Dad balks. “You buried him in your backyard?”

            “No,” I reply, turning away. “ _Yours_.” I grab Scorpius and Hugo and side-along them away.

 

We have a bottle of whiskey, but Hugo’s the only one of us really drinking from it. He took hold of it after Scorpius and I had a swig, and hasn’t let it go.

            We’re sitting on a bench, not far from the house where he grew up. I’d find him out here sometimes when we were kids, writing in his journal, spelling in pictures of exotic places. Hugo sits between Scorpius and I, bent over, the bottle dangling between his knees.

            After nearly a minute of silence, I say, “What are the odds of you getting me a date with Rylance McTavish?”

            Hugo’s mouth quirks at the side, and he glances at me. He’s ashy, and exhausted in a way that’s unfamiliar to his face. “You don’t think you could bag him on your own merits?”

            “My cock has worked wonders, but I don’t know about miracles.”

            Hugo nods, then looks back down. Closing his eyes, he says, “I think I’m rather fucked this time, lads.” A few seconds pass, then he squints over at me. “That was easy prey, Albus.”

            Scorpius says what I was thinking. “It would be the first time.”

            “Thank you, Scorpius.”

            “Your parents looked like they were about to don black armbands,” I remark.

            “Fucking hell. They don’t know what to think. They didn’t know about any of this, and now the healers are telling them I’ll never have magic again. They don’t believe it, not really. Mum will probably spend the next ten years finding the best healers in the world to try and fix me. Dad sort of looks at me like he wants to offer to help with everything I do. I’m scared to take a shit, because for all I know, he’ll knock and ask if I need help cleaning up.”

            “You’ve been known to leave a mess,” I reply.

            “Get bent, Albus.” Hugo sits back, and has another slug from the bottle. Blowing out a sigh, he shakes his head. “This is _shit_.”

            I worry my thumbnail between my teeth, then I ask, “What happened?”

            Hugo frowns, and Scorpius says, “You don’t have to go into it if you’re sick of telling it, mate. We can read about it in the _Prophet_ with the punters.”

            “No. No, I don’t mind telling you two. It was repeating the same story, over and over, to every healer who walked through the door, none of them believing it was possible. One of them even suggested I’d been a Squib this whole time and my parents had just covered it up.”

            “That had to be Healer Mackabee,” I reply. “He also thinks that Tim’s father is a secret lizard person, so you got off light.”

            Hugo wets his lips, then says, “I was coming home. It was the middle of the day, and I didn’t think… I’ve been all over the world, I know how to protect myself, and it just never occurred to me to be on my guard in London. I’d been…I had been asking about. I got up early, so I could get right on it. Even though my head was bloody splitting after that night out we had.” He smiles suddenly. “Am I remembering right, that Tim punched someone?”

            “He did. He was very pleased with himself.”

            “That was a good night. But yeah, I got up early—got rid of that hangover—and started reaching out to people. Went out, met a few—no one seemed to know anything. I realized I’d left something at home, so I headed back there round 1:00, 1:30? Grabbed some lunch from around the corner, headed back to the flat, and—just before I got to the door, I heard a child. I heard a child calling for help.”

            I bite into my lip. Fuck. Of course. Hugo would have gone if he’d heard anyone, but he would have dropped everything if a child was in trouble.

            “I went around the side of the building, and back by the bins, there was—” Hugo stops. His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to see something, but he can’t quite make it out. “I think it was a child. I can’t see her, not really. It’s more an—impression? I know what I thought. I thought she was a little homeless girl. I remember offering her my chips. I asked her where her mummy was, and she started crying. So I put my hand on her shoulder, and…” He gives his head a shake, then puts the bottle back to his mouth.

            I meet Scorpius’ eyes. His face is grave, and he’s trying not to ask too many questions, even though he doesn’t know the whole story. “And after?”

            “After, well, I woke up face down behind the bins. I remembered everything you told me, and I knew. I knew it had happened. That and…I could feel it.” Hugo touches his chest. “Did you know that magic has a hum to it? I never knew. I didn’t know it existed until I realized it was gone. It’s like—I was cut off. Before, I had this connection to everything around me. Now? It’s like a wall’s come down. There’s me and the rest of the world, instead of me in the world. If I was writing it down, I’m sure I’d make it sound less cliched, but it’s all I have at the moment.”

            “You don’t need to make your assault more literary for us,” Scorpius says with a smile.

            “Old habits. I couldn’t get into the flat. It’s warded, so Muggles won’t see it. I couldn’t find it. I kept walking up and down the hall, and intellectually, I _knew_ it was there, I knew where it should be, but every time I passed the place where the door should be, it’s like my mind just glided past it. I knew I needed to call the aurors, but do you know how hard it is to do that when you don’t have magic? It’s impossible, is what it is. You can’t unless you find a witch or wizard to do it for you. I don’t know why, but I didn’t even think to call anyone on my mobile. Instead I went to this café down the street, where the owner’s a witch. I got her to fire call for me.”

            “How long did they have you at the Ministry?” Scorpius asks.

            “Middle of the night. Questioning me.” Hugo glances at me. “I told them nearly everything. Did they talk to you?”

            I nod. “They came round yesterday. I told them what I was able to, without breaking hospital rules. Didn’t tell them I took Golightly’s body, but they know most of it.”

            Scorpius looks perplexed. Hugo’s eyes start to twinkle for the first time today. “Did you really bury him at your parents’ place?”

            “I did.”

            “You’re sick,” he laughs, appreciative. Hugo runs a hand over his face. “Blimey. What a mess. It’s Mum who insisted I go to St. Mungo’s. I knew there wasn’t anything they could do, but I hoped that maybe there was something they could add. They were useless. They wanted to keep me in there a week. One day was quite enough. I called Tim, he came and sprang me when no one was looking. Mum’s pretty irked about that, but I’m an adult and I know when a cause is lost.”

            Scorpius furrows his brow. “It only happened two days ago. You can’t give up hope.”

            Hugo claps a hand on Scorpius’ knee and says, “Mate, I love that you look for the positive in everything. It’s one of the very best things about you, and I admire that quality more than you’ll ever know. But if I hear one more person tell me ‘you can’t give up hope’, I will spit in their face, which is about the extent of what I can do, because I _don’t have magic_.”

            He pulls his hand back, and Scorpius responds, “I’ll do my best not to irritate you with my optimism. But I will be. Quietly.”

            “If you like.”

            “Do the aurors know anything?” I ask. “Any clue whatsoever?”

            Hugo snorts. “They’re astounded by the whole thing. They have nothing. If there was anything to know, they’re more likely to find it now than before, aren’t they. Unlike when it was the homeless being attacked, they can’t ignore this.”

            He’s taking this far better than I would. Of course, it’s Hugo, so he’s not about to break down in tears and recriminations about anything. Still, though—this terrible thing has happened, and it’s not going away.

            When I work up the pluck, I ask the question that’s haunted me for the last two days. “Is this my fault?”

            Scoffing, Hugo shakes his head. “Of course it isn’t.”

            “If I hadn’t brought you into this—”

            “Albus, don’t you get it? I was already in this. I start asking around about the thing, and four hours later, it happens to me? I’d barely started. The people I spoke to, they were innocuous. Unless someone was following me and figured out what I was looking for. I was already a target. I was a target all along.”

            I stare at him, and Scorpius says, “What?”

            “We were thinking about it incorrectly. We were talking as if the homeless had been the aim. But one of us brought up what was really happening. I can’t even remember who now.”

            “Test cases,” I say faintly.

            Hugo nods. “What if they were just collateral damage? What if the goal had always been to take this to public figures? Not to go against my reputation for modesty, but I’m quite well known. On my own, to a large extent, but I’ve always been the son of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Now I’m the brother of notorious Squib-hater Rose Granger-Weasley.”

            He looks at me knowingly, and I slump. Scorpius says, “Hugo, mate—this is supposition—”

            “ _Scorpius_!” Hugo snaps, looking truly irritated for the first time. “You’re no longer shagging my sister, so would you _please_. My whole life, the world’s tried to put me in their shadow, and now I can’t even get attacked on my own merits. I’m just a tool to hurt other people.”

            I have a sudden moment of fear. Am I next?

            Then I realize that would be ridiculous. If the idea is to hurt our more famous relatives, anyone with two brain cells would know my father would give zero fucks if I was made a Squib. Now I feel guilty, for worrying about myself instead of Hugo.

            I don’t like seeing Hugo upset, so I say, “Scorpius is right. We don’t know for sure. When we do know, we can kill whoever’s responsible, but for now let’s just focus on you, all right?”

            Hugo closes his eyes. “I don’t mean to shout.” Scorpius and I both rush to reassure him, but Hugo shakes his head. “I feel awful. What am I even mourning here?”

            Scorpius and I look at one another again, and I say hesitantly, “Your magic?”

            “The whole world lives without magic. There’s so few of us with it. I feel—embarrassed, whining about something that billions of people get along without just fine.”

            “You’ve had magic your whole life,” Scorpius says gently.

            “My life is so privileged,” Hugo continues, unswayed. “I’ve been places where people don’t have more than a bowl of grains to eat in a day, if they have anything at all, and I’m sitting here whining about having to take a train instead of apparating.”

            “Hugo, this just happened. You don’t have to be stoic.”

            “But I do. I can’t just pretend like this is going to change, I can’t spend my life chasing some impossible dream. If I’m stuck like this, people are going to treat me like I’m less than until I die. If I believe them, Scorpius? Even for a second, even for the shortest of moments—I would be ashamed. It’s not how I’ve ever lived my life, and I’m not going to start now.”

            I admire him. I always have, but in this moment, when things are at their worst, Hugo’s choosing to move forward, instead of dwelling in the past. I don’t know how to express that to him, so I just elbow him and say, “Better you than me. I’d be pissing my britches.”

            Hugo looks at me with affection. “Yes, but you’ve always been a sad bastard.” I grin at that.

            “What do you want us to do?” Scorpius asks.

            Thinking about it, Hugo deflates a little. “If either of you are free tomorrow, maybe you could help me find my flat.”

            “I can take the afternoon off. I’ll bring down the wards so you can get in and out.”

            “You can always come stay with me,” I offer.

            “Or Malfoy Manor. We have the space.”

            Hugo considers it, then gives his head a shake. “No. After this, could you take me back to the Burrow? I think I just want to be with Mum and Dad.”

            “Of course,” Scorpius answers.

            “Anything you like,” I reply.

            Hugo nods. Then he lets out a dramatic sigh, and flops his head on my shoulder.

            Sputtering around his afro, I say, “You’re going to smother me with your hair.”

            “I’m a cripple, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”

            I smile a little.

 

We take Hugo back to the Burrow an hour later. He hugs each of us, and makes very sure that we all have one another’s phone numbers. Then he looks up at the house, squares his shoulders, and walks inside.

            He’s a brave man.

            I realize that leaves me alone with Scorpius. Clearing my throat, I turn away, preparing to apparate.

            Scorpius takes a quick step forward. “Are you doing anything right now?”

            I look at him. His face is determined, but his eyes are anxious. The thought of being near him makes my stomach a bit ill. The thought of never being with him again, though, is worse. “No.”

            “Do you want to get a cuppa? Just sit down and…talk.”

            The idea makes me quite nervous, but life is short, and you never know what calamity is around the corner. So I say, “Yeah, all right.”

            “We went to that place in Bedford one time. Do you remember?”

            “With the lights?”

            “That one, yeah. Could we go there?”

            “Okay.”

            Scorpius nods, losing some of his nervousness. “Okay.”

            “Scorpius?”

            Of course. Of course! Two times in two days. Rose stands at the edge of the garden, arms wrapped around herself. She looks vulnerable, which is very unlike her.

            Scorpius has stopped looking at me entirely. All he sees is her. This feeling is very familiar. “Hello.”

            Rose hesitates, then says, “Can we talk? I really—I really need to talk to someone.”

            I prepare for Scorpius to walk away from me. To forget for a moment that I’m even here, and only remember to apologize once he’s a few steps away.

            He gazes at her a long moment, then seems to shake off the spell. “Sorry,” Scorpius says, not unkindly, “but I’ve already made plans with Albus.”

            She seems as startled as I am. “Oh.”

            “Take care.” Scorpius looks at me and says, “You’ll remember how to get there far better than I could.”

            It takes me a moment, but I take his arm, and we apparate.

 

The ceilings and walls are strung with lights. Little lights on rows and rows of white cords. It makes everything glow. If it was a witch or wizard that ran the place, it would just be a flick of a wand, but because it’s Muggle owned, all I can think of is how dreadful the electrical bill must be.

            I sit by myself in a nook that’s a bit protected from everyone else. The café is designed for quiet conversation or a place to come by yourself. Sometimes I’ll read here, spending hours on end with whatever bit of Shakespeare I fancy that day.

            Scorpius comes around the corner, focused on the two drinks he carries in his hands. I try not to fidget. I’m not sure what we’re going to talk about, but I’m not keen to start. When he sets my drink down before me, I murmur, “Ta.”

            Scorpius sheds his cardigan, saying, “I ordered you that terrible chicory coffee you like. It smells like a tree.”

            I look at the pile of whipped cream on his cup and say, “We’re casting stones?”

            He has a seat across from me, putting his hands around the cup. He immediately pulls them away, wincing at the heat. Then he tries to figure out what to do with his hands. I’ve solved that problem for myself by keeping my hands under the table, where I can worry at my cuticles.

            Scorpius settles for folding his hands on the table, then gives me his full attention. “So—what’s this about a body?”

            “I’ve had an eventful few weeks.”

            “Do you want to talk about it?”

            Sighing, I say, “I’ve told and retold this story so many times that honestly? I really don’t.”

            He nods, making his curls bounce. Then he seems to make a decision. “I want to really talk. I want to have a serious conversation with you, without sarcasm or deflection. I want to be very un-English about it and discuss things.”

            Grimacing, I say, “All right.”

            “But I don’t want to fight. So—if you could just not say anything and let me speak for awhile. Could we do that?”

            If it means me not having to speak, that’s fine. I give a nod, and I hope my anxiety isn’t too apparent.

            Scorpius opens his mouth to speak, then stops. He looks at the table, then gets up, and slips onto the chair kitty corner to me. His knee touches mine, and I quickly pull it away. Now I’m quite apprehensive.

            Scorpius says, “I love Rose. I’ve loved her for so long that I don’t know how I’ll ever stop. And there’s this thing about me… I don’t think I’m capable of desiring someone unless I love them first. Everyone’s always teased me for that. What is that Hugo calls me? Rose-sexual? It didn’t bother me when she and I were together, because I liked that about myself. That there were no other women for me. There was just her. I felt like a good partner, because I was loyal. And because I was with her, and she was the only one I ever said I wanted, everyone assumed that…I was straight. To a large extent, I think I did as well. Except…just because I didn’t say it, it didn’t mean that Rose was the only person I ever wanted.”

            He presses his lips together, then says, “Do you remember the first time I kissed you?”

            On edge, I mutter, “It was two days ago, and much as I’d like to erase the last few days, I haven’t had the opportunity.”

            “No. I mean when I turned seventeen.”

            My eyes snap to his. Scorpius looks back, waiting to see what I say.

            My voice is hoarse when I speak. “You were drunk. You forgot.”

            “I was drunk. But I never forgot.” I stare at him, and Scorpius says softly, “I thought you were being good about it, not saying anything to me, so I did my best to pretend it never happened.” I turn my eyes back to the table. I feel my pulse tapping away at the side of my neck. “People always made jokes about us at school. And it was natural to act like it was all untrue, because that’s what you do when you’re a teenage boy. It never bothered me, though. That people made fun. It made you angry, though, so it never occurred to me that you were anything but straight. I was relatively self aware about the whole thing. Sometimes schoolboys have funny feelings about one another. That’s something Dad told me. He sat me down when I was sixteen to ask if there was something going on between us. I said no, because there wasn’t. After all, it was only a crush.”

            Scorpius pushes his hair back from his forehead. “And then I was with Rose, and that made sense. I’d always been wild about Rose, in a way that the world considered acceptable. I mean, I pursued her a little relentlessly, but it’s acceptable for a boy to have a crush on a girl and go after her. I’m not saying I think that way anymore, I mean society—oh, you know what I mean. So things were simple for quite some time. If I had thoughts about my best mate sometimes, that was just something that happened. I was with the woman I loved more than myself. I had what I was supposed to.

            “Then you buggered that up by being gay. No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.

            “I had a bit of a crisis myself. I’d just been blundering onwards, oblivious, and then you came out, and—I don’t know. I couldn’t stop thinking about what that meant for me. What that made me. If maybe I wasn’t just a straight man who sometimes had thoughts about another man. If it made me bi or queer, or I don’t even know. I held off on telling Rose about you, and I couldn’t even admit to myself why. But when I did tell her—” Scorpius glances at me. “The first thing she asked is if I was leaving her for you. It wasn’t a joke. She was worried. I think she knew more than I’d let on. I told her no, of course not, don’t be silly, it was only ever her, it had only ever been her. I told myself that it wasn’t a lie, and I even believed it. A little. Instead of worrying about what I was, I just sort of put it away. And you made it easier, because you never showed sign of any interest. Not once that I could tell. I told myself that if you did feel anything for me, you would have shown it. Because, frankly, you’re selfish.”

            Narrowing my eyes, I say, “I _beg_ your pardon.”

            Unbothered, Scorpius replies, “You are. You’ve never been shy about saying what you want, or if you’re unhappy, or if you’re even the slightest bit disgruntled. The world _has_ to know. You don’t keep much to yourself, oftentimes at the expense of other people. It never occurred to me that you might feel something for me, but keep it to yourself so as not to hurt me.”

            “Because I’m selfish.”

            “Not as selfish as I thought.” I frown, looking down. Scorpius says, “It’s just one of those things I put away. I considered it something childish I hadn’t quite grown out of, though that’s obviously doing a disservice to us both. I was wholly convinced Rose and I would be married. That we’d have a family. Even though I knew she was unhappy. I knew the relationship was falling apart. I couldn’t admit it, but I knew. People think that because I look on the bright side of things, that I don’t see the dark. Only I do. I just don’t like to dwell on it. Sometimes that’s admirable. Other times it’s ill advised. Particularly when a thing is destined to end. It does no one any good to act as if it’s not.”

            He doesn’t say anything a moment. Glancing at him, I prompt, “So?”

            “So,” Scorpius says. “So I feel like an idiot. When you told me…I shut down. It wasn’t like me, and I am very, very sorry for that. The last two months have been…some of the worst of my life. I had all these plans, Albus, and now there are no plans. Everything I thought I knew has been wiped clean. That’s a terrifying proposition for me. I like knowing what’s coming next. I’m not easily adaptable. I know that. I’m not like Hugo, who can be maimed and heroic approximately five seconds later. I’ve just floundered. And when you told me…it opened up this whole thing that I’ve paid very little attention to over the years, because it was an impossibility. It meant doing a lot of thinking about myself. What I want—who I am. In atypical form, I shut you out from that. I’ve never done that before, and it was the worst. I’ve really missed you.”

            Head bent, I whisper, “I’ve missed you as well.”

            “I wish I could tell you that I’ve worked it all out. That I know what I want, and it’s all set in my mind, and that I have a plan. I don’t. I’ve spent these past few weeks terrified. Proper terrified. Scared of you, of myself, of I don’t even know what. But after what happened to Hugo—it was so sudden. I had no idea what was going on, and now he’s been robbed of something so intrinsic that I can barely fathom it. The thought of losing him—of losing anyone I love so suddenly—I can’t bear it. What if it had been you? What if you’d been hurt, or killed, and I hadn’t spoken to you in weeks?”

            “You came to the house before you even knew about that.”

            Scorpius hangs his head, sheepish. “Yeah. The night before, Dad came up to my room, told me you’d dropped by. He hasn’t asked too many questions, but I’ve been out of sorts for weeks, and I think he knew it was about you. Before he left, he said to me, ‘A man is lucky to have a friend who cares more about him than himself. If you don’t figure this out, you’re going to lose one of the best things that ever happened to you.’ I couldn’t get that out of my head all day. He was right. Finally, I just apparated over, and—I kissed you. And as soon as I did, I remembered every single doubt I had, every reservation, so I just…ran. Again.”

            “And…what are your reservations?”

            To my surprise, Scorpius says forcefully, “That I’ll _hurt_ you.” He shakes his head, looking into my eyes. “You’re the one person—who’s always been honest with me. You’ve been there for me, you’ve let me be myself. You’ve been good to me. You’ve been unselfish with me. I’ve tried to be a good friend to you, but I’ve also been blind. I’ve hurt you over the years with my blindness, and maybe I’m hurting you now by telling you. I don’t know. I have all these thoughts, and feelings, that I’ve never discussed with anyone before, and maybe it doesn’t add up to enough. Maybe it’s not enough for you. There’s no way for me to tell. You’re a good person. You’re my favourite person. And I don’t want to do something that will hurt you anymore than I already have.”

            “What—what is it that you want from me?”

            Bracing himself, Scorpius says, “To be entirely forthcoming—I’d like to date. Or try. That is ideally what I would like. Because we’re two adults who like one another, who care about one another. I understand, though, that there is a great deal that could prevent such a proposition from happening. Honestly, I just keep hearing you tell me why it’s a bad idea in my head.”

            “What do I say?”

            Scorpius’ face changes, becoming guarded, critical, and when he speaks, the voice that comes out is far too familiar. “Rose dumped you, so I’m second place now, am I? You’ll get my hopes up, decide you’re actually heterosexual, and leave me broken hearted. I’m just some rebound, then? You’ve never even been with a man, what could you possibly offer me? You ignored me for weeks, and now I’m supposed to go on a date with you? You can’t be so stupid as to ruin our friendship—”

            Putting up my hands, I shudder. “Okay, that’s—quite enough.” The idea of my negative voice inside Scorpius’ brain is sickening. Bad enough that I have to deal with it; he doesn’t need to bear the burden as well.

            “They’re valid concerns. I wish I could tell you I was certain that it would all work out. I can’t be my stereotypical self about this, because there’s far too much at stake. Maybe, despite what I might think, we tried this and it’s not for me. I want to tell you that it is, but there’s no way for me to know that unless I try. I wish I could tell you that if I’d known that you had feelings for me when we were younger, if I’d known I had a choice between you and Rose—I wish I could tell you I wouldn’t have known which choice to make, but I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t know if I would have been brave enough. I don’t know if I’m brave enough now. I just…” Scorpius lays his hand on the table. “I respect you. You are my best friend, and you mean more to me than I can say. It wouldn’t sit right with me if I never said any of this. Whatever you want to do about it, I’ll be fine with. Any decisions are entirely up to you, because I don’t want to push you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do something just to make me happy, because I don’t _know_ what will make me happy. I think this would, but I have a history of relying on optimism when it’s not the smartest option. So if you would like to give this a try, we can. And if you don’t, I understand.”

            He stops talking, and I realize that it’s now my turn.

            Swallowing, I reach for my drink. Only my hands are shaking. Pulling them back, I take a moment to make sure I’m able to speak. I think I am.

            Without looking at him, I say, “I’d like to tell you that I can be fatalistic about this, because that would be logical. And in character. But if there is even the slimmest possibility this could work out, I have to take it, because this could be the only chance I have in my life for lasting happiness. So yes. If you would like to try this, then we could explore that.”

            Scorpius blinks his silver eyes a few times, then says, “What if I make a mess of it? What if I break your heart?” I shrug. “No death threats? No ‘if you hurt me I’ll kill you?’ You sure?”

            “If you break my heart, I’ll expect it.”

            “Ouch.”

            “I would prefer if you didn’t.”

            “I’ll endeavour not to,” Scorpius says, but it comes out almost as a question. Leaning forward, he forces my eyes. “Albus, are you sure?”

            Looking back at him, I say, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”

            He watches me a moment, then looks down, a smile tugging at his mouth. He is so beautiful, and my heart is beating so quickly. Scorpius reaches out, taking my hand from beneath the table, and wraps it in both of his. His hands are cooler than mine. Dipping his head, Scorpius pulls my hand up to his mouth and gives it a tender kiss.

            I am without words.

 

We walk home quietly, saying almost nothing to one another. I expect the both of us are too dazed to speak. Or to think. I don’t know about Scorpius, but my brain is buzzing so much that I can’t pick out a defined thought.

            I let him inside through the front door. Zamora sits there expectantly. Without looking at me, she goes right to Scorpius. He picks her up, holding her above his head. “Who’s the prettiest lady in the whole wide world?” Zamora yowls mournfully. Snorting, Scorpius cuddles her to his chest. “It’s you. You’re the prettiest lady in the world.” She butts her head up under his chin, beginning to purr.

            I watch them, and it’s like I don’t know how to be myself. All my usual tricks seem very far away. “She’s the best gift anyone ever gave me.”

            “I knew you needed someone to keep you company.” He looks at me, and it feels like we say so many things to one another, but I can’t tell what they are.

            Trying not to fidget, I ask, “What would you like to do?”

            Scratching behind Zamora’s ear, Scorpius says, “Could we—just lie down and be quiet awhile?”

            I nod. I’d do anything he liked. Scorpius kisses the top of Zamora’s head, then sets her down. I hold out a hand. Biting his lip, Scorpius takes it, and I lead him to the bedroom. I close the door gingerly after him, mouthing ‘sorry’ at my disgruntled cat.

            That leaves he and I alone in my bedroom.

            Neither of us do anything at first. We stand here, shy about one another. I don’t think I’ve been shy around a man I liked since I was seventeen years old. We glance at each other, and I feel like we’re still surrounded by lights, only it’s soft electricity on the air.

            Scorpius steps closer to me. I let him, unmoving. I’m too scared to do anything. I have loved him so long that I worry I’d overwhelm him. I’m also afraid for myself. He has a power over me that no one else ever has, or ever will.

            When he reaches towards my face, I force myself to stay still. His fingers on my skin sends a rush through my body that shocks me. I have to close my eyes briefly against it. Scorpius is studying me, stepping closer, in my space, and I focus only on breathing. He runs his fingers up my temple, then lays his hand flat against the side of my face, leaning forward to kiss me.

            This time, for the first time, I kiss him back.

            The press of his lips is gentle, measured. I have never been kissed so sweetly before. I take hold of his sleeve lightly, these little sparks racing up and down all through me. He is cooler than I expected, but maybe that’s because I’m running warm. Feeling my stomach against his, feeling us connect in ways we haven’t before—I am drifting on a dream.

            We touch one another hesitantly. Just small things. Like his fingertips against my neck, or my hand reaching around to the small of his back. We begin to maneuver one another towards the bed, and sex doesn’t even factor into it. I understand what he meant when he asked if we could be quiet together. Anything more than this would be too much.

            Scorpius climbs onto the bed, not letting go of my hand. I lay down beside him, needing to be in contact with him. We lie face to face. His eyes run over my features, studying me in a way no one ever has before. I can’t bear it. So I close my eyes, and I inhale and exhale, letting him take his fill.

            “You are so handsome,” Scorpius murmurs, and I frown, turning my face against the pillow. “You _are_. I like everything about your face.”

            “Makes one of us,” I mumble. His hand goes back to my cheek, and I can’t take it. I push myself forward so I can be kissing him again.

            We lie here, carefully wrapping ourselves up in each other, until finally he just pulls me tight against his body. I lay my head on his shoulder, and he pets my hair, and I am at rest.


	12. Chapter 12

I tap on the door with no small level of annoyance. “Come in,” a voice calls.

            Stepping inside, I say, “You wanted to see me?”

            Esmerline looks up from their ledger. “My favourite employee. Have a seat.”

            I do, in a kelly green chair with brass tacks. The whole office is impeccably furnished, but I would expect no less from Esmerline.

            I like my boss. They remind me a bit of Mr. Malfoy—fashionable and cutting. If I could work with Esmerline more frequently, I would, but I am a data miner, and that’s all.

            “If I was your favourite employee, I doubt I’d be stuck in St. Mungo’s another six months.”

            Esmerline raises a plucked brow. They’re intimidatingly attractive, with thick hair and plush lips and a jaw cleaved from marble. I had a bit of a thing for Esmerline when I first started, to be honest. “Do you want to be removed? Because that pertains to today’s conversation.”

            Slumping, I say, “What have I done now?” I glance at the clock over their head. It’s 5:30. I got the call to come to the Ministry at the end of the day on a Friday. It’s not convenient.

            “I’ve had a complaint from our friend at St. Mungo’s.”

            “Is it in writing?”

            “No. So I couldn’t officially action anything, even if I wanted to.”

            “Do you want to?”

            Esmerline rolls purple eyes. “I play the game quite well, but I won’t be cowed by St. Mungo’s record keeper, _thank you_.”

            “What’s her issue?”

            “Apparently you went off on some side mission, as it were, based on St. Mungo’s confidential information. Is that true?”

            “Yes.”

            “Regarding?”

            “Cases of the homeless being assaulted. It was being ignored by the hospital and the aurors, and it didn’t sit right with me. I tried to go through the proper channels, but was told to stop wasting my time.”

            “You didn’t come to me.”

            “You were in Saint-Tropez.”

            “Still. You could have messaged.”

            “Right. I went about it wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’ve never done anything like it before, and I’ll never do it again. But I was right about what was happening. The same person attacked my cousin.” Esmerline gives me a look, and I say, “I’m still _very_ apologetic about the lack of professionalism, of course.”

            Nodding, Esmerline says, “Frankly, Albus, I think Suzette is trying to cover her tracks from all the heat she’s getting over these stolen files, let alone preventing the investigating of these attacks, and you make a convenient target. No one will take her seriously about any kind of charges against you, but she’s always been a persistent sort of cunt, so I wouldn’t put it past her to make things difficult for you.”

            “I’m glad to have you on my side.”

            “She did say something that concerned me, however.”

            Cautiously, I say, “And that is?”

            “She intimated that there had been some alarming leaks coming from the hospital over the last few months. Things very few people would know.”

            I don’t blink. “St. Mungo’s has always been a leaky ship. You pay me well. I don’t need to supplement my income fucking around with a criminal record.”

            “I thought as much.” Esmerline pulls a cup of tea from their drawer. I don’t know how many they keep down there; I’ve seen twelve of those full cups be passed out to people at team meetings. “However, if I discover any new leaks that seem to have emerged from the Department of Records, I won’t only fire you, Albus. I’ll make sure you never work in data collection again so long as you live.”

            Incredulous, I say, “There’s more than a dozen other people that work in the department. Any one of them could be leaking information.” Esmerline shrugs. “That’s not fair.”

            Fixing me with an unimpressed look, they say, “So?” I sit back, incensed. More than I should be, considering I _am_ the one leaking things. “Prove to me it’s someone else, or it will be your future at stake. Clear?”

            I fume for a moment, then answer, “Crystal.”

            “Excellent! Splendid work, by the way. Always best of the lot.” Esmerline glances back at the clock and says, “Somewhere to be?”

            “Not—if this requires further discussion.”

            After a moment’s consideration, Esmerline smiles. “It does not.” I get up, relieved, and Esmerline asks, “What’s on the agenda for this evening?”

            I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t breathed a word of it to anyone. But because I have to tell someone, I answer with some giddiness, “I have a date.”

            “Is he rich, handsome, funny? If it’s not at least two out of three, then he should at least be decent in bed.”

            “He’s all three.”

            Esmerline waves me off like they might a dog. “Don’t let me keep you, then.” I nearly get to the door when Esmerline says, “Albus.” They look at me with uncommon seriousness. “Don’t let me down.”

            I nod, then walk out the door. I have a date with Scorpius.

 

I walk down the street at a fair clip, glancing at one sign after another in irritation. My mobile says I’m in the right area, but I’ve never been to Dover before, and I’m already running late.

            Why in the hell would Scorpius want to go to Dover?

            I finally spot the restaurant. The Spotted Hare. Entirely nondescript, in the middle of a street with a narrow lane. We’re not even in sight of the cliffs. Grumbling, I walk through the front door.

            I don’t bother to take in the ambience. The hostess tries to step out in front of me, but I spot Scorpius, so I say, “Pardon me,” and walk around her.

            Scorpius looks up at my approach, smiling. “This is the occasion you’re late for?”

            Rolling my eyes, I drop into the chair across from him. “Esmerline asked me to come in at the last second.”

            “Everything all right?”

            “Oh, just Suzette being her usual charming self.” I shrug out of my jacket. Before I can put it on the back of my seat, the hostess sweeps in, asking if she can take it. I have a glance around. I am—underdressed. I have on a jumper and jeans. I _asked_ if I needed to be dressed up, and Scorpius said to just wear my work things. I put on a tight smile and pass my jacket to the hostess, pocketing my wand discreetly. When she steps away, I glare at Scorpius. “You never said there was a dress code.”

            He glances around, surprised. “You look fine.”

            Displeased, I unfold my napkin, laying it across my lap. The restaurant is small, maybe twelve tables total, and only half of those are occupied. It’s obviously an older place, but well kept. We are the youngest patrons by twenty years and a tax bracket, at least on my end.

            “How was your day?”

            “Fine.” I’m starting out by being defensive. I need to pay attention or I’m going to fuck everything up. So I force myself to take a deep breath, relax my shoulders, then sit back.

            Scorpius looks perfect, as always. He’s in one of his Muggle suits, a cobalt blue that brings some colour to his silver eyes. He looks so put together and out of my league.

            He opens his mouth to speak, but I say, “Excuse me a moment.” I get up and make a quick line towards the loo.

 

Five minutes later, I return. I’ve transfigured my clothes into maroon trousers and my cheap jumper into one that looks like cashmere. My boots—which are comfortably ugly—are now uncomfortable oxfords that look shining and new.

            Retaking my seat, I say, “Try again, shall we?”

            Scorpius tilts his head towards my full wine glass. “I took the liberty.”

            “Bless you.” I don’t pick it up, however. Eyeing it, I say reluctantly, “I should probably be sober for this. If I were to start now, it could escalate quite quickly.”

            “Fair enough.”

            I nearly open my menu, but decide against it. Crossing my arms on top of it, I lean forward. “Why are we in _Dover_?”

            Scorpius snorts sheepishly. “It’s a pureblood thing, if you must know.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            He looks through his menu, blushing slightly. “When you court someone, it’s traditional to take your date to a place that was of importance to your family.”

            Stricken, I glance around the restaurant again. I see no gargoyles, no signs of spell damage. “This place is important to the _Malfoys_?” Scorpius arches a brow, and I lift my fingers. “Listen, your granddad wasn’t in Azkaban for no reason. You and your father are sort of the exception to the rule, and not even entirely your father.”

            Scorpius narrows his eyes briefly, then says, “This is where my parents would come for Mum’s birthday, at least until I was born.”

            “Oh.”

            “Do you find that more acceptable?” Scorpius teases.

            “Honestly? Yes.”

            “Judging a book by its cover.”

            “Listen—”

            “Making assumptions based on one’s family history. Can you believe it?”

            “Yes, I deserve that.” I open the menu, and say, “I half wondered if you chose it because no one would ever find us here.”

            Scorpius pauses, then says, “Would you have preferred somewhere in London?”

            “No,” I say emphatically. “This suits me perfectly, thank you.”

            “To be frank—it didn’t occur to me to choose a place that was _public_ , as it were. Does that bother you?”

            I shake my head. “Not particularly.”

            “I’m not ashamed of what we’re doing here—”

            I fix him with a gaze. “Scorpius, I have no desire to do this in front of a crowd. If everyone knew what we were doing and it ended quickly, I would be pitied by every person I know. I will _not_ be pitied.” I turn my eyes back to the menu and blanch. “There are no prices.”

            “Don’t worry about that.”

            “If the prices aren’t on the menu, I can’t afford it—”

            “It’s the same rules we’ve always had. If I take you someplace you can’t afford, it’s on me to pay the tab. Order what you like. The money’s mine, I might as well do what I like with it.”

            I could pretend to be uncomfortable with that, but the truth is that I kind of enjoy the idea of someone paying my way. The other issue with the menu is that it’s in French, and my French could charitably be described as middling. I try to decipher it a moment, then give up. Folding it closed, I say, “You order for me. You know what I like.”

            With a smirk, Scorpius asks, “ _Le menu vous a vaincu_?”

            “If you think I’m one of those people who get all flustered by a man who speaks French, you are sadly mistaken.”

            Scorpius shrugs. “ _Nous verrons_.”

            I can’t let myself be nervous. If I stop and really think about what we’re doing, I’ll put myself in knots. I spent the last few days not sleeping. Our schedules didn’t line up until tonight, so I spent four very sleepless nights until I gave in and took a shot of Dreamless Sleep.

            Scorpius and I. On a date.

            “May I ask you something?”

            “Of course,” Scorpius replies.

            “Have you told anyone?”

            Closing the menu, Scorpius sets it aside. “I have not,” he admits. “Would you prefer if I had?”

            I shake my head. “I haven’t told anyone either.”

            “Like I said, I’m not embarrassed by this, and if you wanted to tell people, I would be okay with that. It’s only that…we’ve been friends a very long time. And we have famous fathers. One considerably more respected than the other. I think the press would have a great many opinions about you and I, and therefore the general public. On an entirely other level, there’s what our families will think. Your family has certainly warmed to me over the years.” Sweet, optimistic man. “Still, I don’t know that they’d be pleased by our dating. Things feel quite tentative right now, because we’re both worried about wounding one another, and I feel like outside opinions could have an outsized effect. I would like to give this a chance before telling people.”

            I nod. “Agreed.”

            “I thought you would argue.”

            “Why?”

            “I thought you’d think I was trying to hide you or something.”

            “I’d hide me.”

            “Stop.”

            “No, I’ve no problem with it. I understand what you’re saying. The way I look at it, I’ve always been a private person. The world seems to think they have a stock in my life because of my parents, and they don’t. That and my family has never understood what I want. It’s none of their business. None of them.”

            Scorpius nods, satisfied. “All right. Settled, then. For now, at least.”

            I lift my glass. “Cheers.”

            He taps his glass to mine, and we each take a sip. The waiter comes by, and Scorpius orders in flawless French. I try not to be too enamoured of him when he does that. I have no idea what he’s saying, he’s speaking so quickly, but it sounds divine. Even if he’s only ordering dinner.

            The waiter leaves us be, and now it’s just us two.

            Neither of us rush to fill the silence. Where would I even start? It becomes clear we’re at a loss.

            Scorpius smiles crookedly, and says, “Sorry. I don’t date much.”

            “Nor I.”

            He takes a deep breath and pulls himself closer to the table. “I see no reason why this should be awkward.”

            I bark. “Do you really?”

            “We see each other five days a week for an hour at a time, and we’ve never run out of things to say.”

            “Certainly nothing different about this.”

            “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself that you think I don’t know.”

            “But no pressure,” I say snidely. Scorpius raises his shoulders, and waits. Blast him. “Your father knows how I feel about you.”

            “He does _not_.”

            “He does so. The morning after you and Rose broke up, when he came to the house, the first thing he did was go straight to my bedroom to look for you.”

            Scorpius stares at me, wide eyed. Leaning forward, he asks with disbelief, “Did everyone know?”

            Cheeks warming, I say, “You were literally the only person who didn’t.”

            “Am I just generally that oblivious? Do I go through life unaware of even the most obvious things?”

            “Yes.”

            He drops his head briefly. “Well done, Scorpius.”

            “What do you think your father will say? If this works out and we have to tell him.”

            Scorpius considers it, then says, “I think he might be disappointed at first.”

            “Ah.”

            Scorpius reaches out a hand. “Not that it’s you. My father thinks you’re grand. If it wasn’t for him lighting a fire under me, I don’t know how long I would have let things fester. It’s just that…he is very invested in my having a family, and to some extent being respectable. He had his issues with Rose, but it still went along with his plans for me.”

            Issues. I think of Mr. Malfoy high fiving me and saying, ‘Our long nightmare is over.’

            “And I fuck that up,” I remark.

            Scorpius grimaces, then says, “You don’t want children.” I shudder at the thought. “Yeah, see, you do that every time it’s even mentioned.”

            “Imagine me as a father. Merlin’s beard, I would have to start saving for their therapy bills now.”

            Feeling dreadful, I look down at my hands. Scorpius asks, “What is it?”

            “You _need_ to have children. It’s something you’ve always wanted. Say we do work out, and I’ll obviously have to agree to children to make you happy, and I’ll only fuck them up—”

            “Albus. We’re on our _first date_. Calm down.”

            “I just—I don’t want to start something if it’s only going to make you feel badly when it needs to end so that you can have what you want.” I rub my face with both hands, sighing. When I drop my hands, Scorpius is smiling. “What?”

            “It’s novel, seeing you care about someone more than yourself.”

            “You know what, you can get fucked.” He laughs, and I say, “Of course I care about you more than myself. Even you—blind as you are—should have been able to see that.”

            “You’d think that, wouldn’t you.”

            “How cross do you think your father will be with me? You know I respect him—frankly, more than I do my own—but he can be a bit…”

            “What?”

            “Scary.”

            Scorpius lets out a chuckle, then shrugs. “I don’t know that he’d target you—I don’t think. He’s been good about giving ground when he knows it will make me happy. I think sometimes he’s torn between what he’s been taught and what he thinks my mother would have done. He tries to defer to the latter as much as he can, but he’s still a Malfoy. And we Malfoys are fairly stubborn.”

            “Really? I’d not noticed.”

            “Lies.”

            “What do you think your mother would have wanted?”

            “She…was willing to make hard choices in order to be happy. I think Mum would approve of whatever made me happiest. So here we are.”

            “I don’t remember much about your mother. I only ever saw her at King’s Cross.”

            Scorpius’ face brightens at the mention of her. “She was lovely. Oh, she was so lovely, Albus. She indulged me, really, but only in things that were good for me. I would spend all day with her in bed reading. Dad would try and get me out of the house to play Quidditch, but she’d say, just a little while longer, and he’d let her have her way in whatever she wanted. Suppose I should blame her for being shit at Quidditch.”

            “No, that was just innate.”

            “Most men idolize their mothers. I know that. You do it, and you don’t even like your family. So I realize I might have some bias. Only she really was wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for better, and the only thing I can regret is that I didn’t have her longer.” Scorpius pauses a moment, then says wistfully, “It’ll be eleven years this summer.”

            I hate to see him sad, so I say, “You know what else is this summer.”

            “Hmm?”

            “The Harry Potter Day to end all Harry Potter Days.”

            Scorpius laughs, brightening. “What a fantastic shit show that will be. What do you plan on doing about it?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. Most likely just show up and keep my mouth shut.”

            “That doesn’t sound like you.”

            “Do you know what I’ve found? After all these years of antagonizing them, what really bothers them is if I don’t rise to the bait. They get so _nervous_ if I behave myself. I really do enjoy how uncomfortable that makes them.”

            “You’re sick. Never change.”

            “I don’t know that I could if I wanted to.” I fidget with my hands, then ask, “I did tell my mum that I would bring you as my date, some time back. To the dancing bit the night before. If you’d be interested.”

            Scorpius says regretfully, “I already told Dad I’d sit with him. I don’t know how your family would feel about our tables joining.”

            “Your poor father. Having to sit through Harry Potter Day.”

            “I mean, yes, he does despise it. But he’s rather like you in some regards. He goes because he knows it irritates everyone who was on the winning side.”

            “You know, if it didn’t qualify as incest, I’d say I was really your father’s son and we’d been separated at birth.”

            After a beat, Scorpius says, “Thank Merlin for small favours.”

            “I probably shouldn’t joke about incest on our first date.”

            Scorpius gazes at me, and says in earnest, “Albus. It wouldn’t be you if you weren’t joking about incest on a first date.”

            I smirk. “What else is proper material, then?”

            I expect him to joke, but he goes serious. “If—you’re ready to talk about it, I would like to know about your last month.”

            Deflating, I say, “Right.”

            “We don’t have to. Damn it, we were having a conversation, and I just buggered it up, didn’t I—”

            “No. No, I need to tell you eventually. I know you’re worried about Hugo and everything. It’s not fair for me to not tell you. So I guess I should start at the beginning.”

            “And when is that?”

            Remembering, I tell him, “You know what? It actually started the day you proposed.”

 

By the time I finish telling the story, our food has arrived. It sits untouched, cooling.

            The entire time I’ve been speaking, Scorpius has grown paler and paler. The usual pink tinge to his cheeks has nearly disappeared. He asked me a few questions at first, but for most of it he’s been completely silent.

            “And you know the rest,” I say. I pick up my wine glass, finishing the last few dregs.

            Scorpius presses his lips together, putting his head down for a long moment. When he looks up, he says, “I am so sorry.”

            “For what?”

            “For leaving you alone.”

            I shrug. “I’m usually alone.”

            “No. You usually have me. This time you didn’t, and you needed me, and I was off being up my own arse. Damn it. Albus, I am so sorry.”

            “Stop it,” I say, uncomfortable.

            Scorpius threads his fingers through his curls, clearly upset with yourself. “I cannot believe you buried a man in your parents’ backyard. How did you get away with that?”

            “It was rather easy. It was late. It took me all of five minutes.”

            “What does your mother think of that?”

            “She’s trying to figure out who she should be madder at. Me, James, or Dad. Dad seems to be winning out at the moment.”

            “Have you heard from him?”

            “Not a word. The aurors checked in on me a few days back, but that’s the closest to him that I’ve gotten.”

            We don’t say anything a moment. We’re both thinking the same thing.

            Scorpius breaks the silence. “Imagine it. Losing your magic.”

            I shake my head. “I would rather not.”

            “Do you really think Hugo will be like this forever?”

            “I don’t know. If there’s any way to reverse it, my aunt will move heaven and earth to find it. He might be, though.”

            “How will he travel?”

            “Slowly. By airplane, I suppose.”

            “I’ve never been. They frighten me, actually.”

            “Me as well. I’d never want to be that high up. In something not even run by magic, no less.”

            “I saw him yesterday. I went by his flat.”

            “How was he?”

            “Surprisingly well. He seems a lot less shaken than when I last saw him. Tim was there with him, and he seems more rattled than Hugo. We’re all more rattled than Hugo.”

            “If whoever did this thought they could break Hugo like they did Golightly, they have another thing coming.” Reluctantly, I ask, “Have you heard from Rose?”

            “No. I asked Hugo if he’d heard from her, but he’s not speaking to her at the moment.”

            Studying, I ask, “Do you feel sorry for her?”

            Scorpius furrows his brows at me. “Of course I do. Her brother was attacked.”

            I hold my tongue. It’s more than likely that Hugo was attacked to get one over on Rose. She bears a great deal of blame, for a great many things.

            “Who do you think will be next?” Scorpius wonders.

            I shiver. “Let’s not. All of magical Britain is having a panic about it. There’s no knowing.”

            “You don’t think—I mean, you’re being safe, right?”

            “Scorpius, trust me. No one is going to attack me to make any kind of point.”

            “Nor I. If a Malfoy lost his magic, I imagine most of the island would celebrate.”

            “Cheers to being unwanted by society.” I nod towards his food. “You should start. It’s going to get cold.”

            Scorpius blinks, as if he’d forgotten his plate. “You as well.” He glances at me, and I see something protective in his gaze.

 

The sound of the strait rolls gently in and out as we walk away from the town, along the cliffs. The sky is clear, and the evening is cool and dark.

            “Do you know what would make this better?” I ask. Scorpius shakes his head. Drawing my wand, I take a deep breath before swishing it through the air. “ _Abolesco_.”

            All the lights from the town disappear as the glamour sets in. The sounds of automobiles softens, then vanishes entirely. One after the other, the buildings melt away, then the roads as well. Even the boats on the strait cease to be. Every trace of humanity has been wiped clear, leaving only the land and water as it would have been before people laid conquest to the world.

            Scorpius smiles appreciatively. “Well done.” I shrug, not bothering to be humble, and we continue our walk.

            I don’t feel the need to say anything. I like to just be near him. There are few people who I can be silent with. Actually, I don’t know if there are any others besides him.         

            The wind brings the scent of salt to us off the water. I come to a stop, gazing out. The stars have brightened without the lights. It really is a beautiful night.

            I glance down as Scorpius touches my fingers. He slips his hand into mine, and I clasp it. Tugging him gently forwards, we walk on.

            “What did I want to be when I grew up?” I ask him suddenly.

            “A dancer,” Scorpius replies without having to think about it. “What did I want to be?”

            “An auror. Everyone knew that. Do you still wish you had been?”

            “I don’t know. When I was younger, I felt like I had something to prove. I wanted to show everyone that just because my last name was Malfoy, it didn’t make me suspect. Being an auror, that would have shown people I was capable of doing good, or so my thinking went. Only now, when I think of what being an auror entails—I don’t think I could have done it.”

            “You could have. You’ve always been braver than people give you credit for.”

            “It’s nothing to do with bravery. I don’t think I could spend my whole life facing the worst in people. To be honest with you, it sounds dreadful. And having to hurt people? I don’t care for that at all. Why are you smiling?”

            “Oh, I just enjoy your having more sense than my father and brother combined.”

            “I’ve wondered about that.”

            “What?”

            “What it must have done to your father. After everything he did as a boy, and then spending his entire adult life chasing dark witches and wizards as well. I feel sorry for him.”

            “Do not,” I say vehemently. “My father crushed your dream, whether you’ve changed your mind about it or not. I’ll never forgive him for it.”

            “He did me a favour, Albus. I love what I do now. I love what I _will_ do someday, when I move up. Helping people into homes, changing their lives for the better—it’s far preferable to punting someone off to Azkaban.”

            Undeterred, I say, “You can be mature about it. I’ll continue being bitter.”

            “That could be your personal motto.”

            “Shut it,” I mutter, and he laughs. “May I ask you something?”

            “Of course.”

            “What if you don’t move up at the Ministry?”

            “I will, though. People are resistant, because they have this idea of my family in their minds. To some extent they’re correct. Well, more than some. The Malfoys don’t have a sterling past. It’s meant I had to work harder than everyone else, but do you know what else? It means I have to always be on my toes. I have to always give my very best, and that’s a good thing. I hold myself to a standard that no one can deny. It will take time, but it will happen. Mark my words.”

            “Marked.”

            “And you? What’s next for you?”

            “Oh, I’ll find another project. I’ll putter along with my numbers.”

            “But what would you _like_ to do?”

            I tell him the truth. “I don’t rightly know.”

            “May I make an observation?”

            “You may. I can’t promise to like whatever your observation might be.”

            “Have you ever considered actually embracing your potential?” I sigh, and Scorpius continues, “You’ve always been so dead set on disappointing your father by being ordinary that it’s been to your detriment. But you’re not ordinary. What if you really did something with your life?”

            “Like what?”

            “You have the most famous last name in England. You could do whatever you pleased.”

            “You know—I don’t mind being ordinary. Being extraordinary looks like a terrible amount of work.”

            “Lazy,” Scorpius chides, squeezing my hand.

            “Do you mind that I lack the typical Slytherin ambition?”

            “You do not. You’re relentlessly ambitious when it comes to subverting your father’s expectations.”

            “My energies have to go somewhere.” I brush my shoulder against his. “Let’s stop talking about the same old things. Ask me something.”

            “Like what?”

            “Something you’ve wondered but never felt able to before. No restrictions.”

            Scorpius slows to a halt. I stop with him, waiting. He inhales, then asks, “How many men have you slept with?”

            I raise my brows. To his credit, Scorpius doesn’t apologize for asking. It’s something he wants to know. I do him the courtesy of telling the truth. “I stopped counting somewhere after forty.”

            He tries not to react, and mostly succeeds. “And when was that?”

            “Some time back.”

            Scorpius nods, though he’s obviously a touch intimidated. “What’s it like, sleeping with another man?”

            “That’s difficult for me to answer. Men are really my only point of reference, so I couldn’t say what they’re like compared to the alternatives.”

            “Have you—ever been with a man, where it was his first time with another man, and it was good?”

            I cringe, and answer, “Good is subjective.”

            “It’s really not. So you’re telling me that I’ll be terrible the first time.”

            “Whoa, let’s slow down a moment. I’m not expecting that to happen right away. I’d actually rather hold off on that for the time being.”

            Scorpius lets out a breath I didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Oh thank God.”

            “Did you really think I expected you to fuck me immediately?”

            “I don’t know! You usually go home with someone about a half hour after meeting them—oh, get that look off your face. It’s true.”

            “It is true, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

            “I’m not saying that there is, I’m simply pointing out that you’d given me no evidence suggesting you didn’t expect me to—whatever—immediately.”

            I shake my head at him. “You should be so lucky to have me whatever you tonight. You’ve missed out with that attitude. Do you want to quiz me about sex some more?”

            “Not really, but I probably should.”

            Amused, I say, “Fine. Ask me everything about queer sex you’ve ever wanted to know.”

            Scorpius rolls his eyes. “It’s not that, it’s…I don’t really have much interest in the generalities of it. If I were to think of sex with some faceless, anonymous man, it certainly doesn’t titillate me.”

            “You know, there’s a word for that.”

            “I know there’s a word for that, but—it doesn’t make me feel better for using it. I feel like, if I put a word onto who and what I am, all of a sudden it becomes so much smaller. Less personal, less mine.”

            “You’ve no idea how obnoxious I find that. People who say, ‘oh, I’m _beyond_ labels, look how unique I am—‘”

            “Piss off,” Scorpius says, shoving me with one hand, then reeling me back with another. “I don’t know what to ask you, all right? I wouldn’t even know where to start. I just want to make you happy.”

            Threading my fingers through his, I give my head a shake. “You have to promise me something.”

            “What’s that?” I look at our hands together. In the dark, his are pale. They almost glimmer in a way. I never thought I would hold his hand like this. I can’t stop to think about it too long. I can’t, or I’ll start to doubt that this has happened at all. “Albus, what is it?”

            “If you decide you don’t want to do this—”

            “Hush.”

            “ _No_ ,” I say adamantly. “You need to promise me—you won’t let things drag out. As soon as you know that you can’t do this, you will tell me. Don’t let things muddle on because you think it will please me. That could lead to you hating me, and I could not live with that. Promise me that if you’re done, you’ll end things soon as you can, so that we can stay friends. Promise that no matter what, you’ll still be my friend if this ends. I need to know that.”

            “What if it’s you that hates me?”

            “Don’t be daft. You don’t know—you don’t know how long I’ve… Just promise me, Scorpius. You have to promise.”

            The breeze comes off the water, ruffling our hair. I reach up to push mine back, but Scorpius has beat me to it. He brushes my hair back from my face, and keeps his hand there. “When did you become so sweet?” he asks with genuine curiosity, and I blush. Stepping closer, Scorpius slips his fingers beneath my chin, forcing me to lift my head. He smiles at me, and murmurs, “I promise.”

            He looks to me to see if I understand, and I nod. Scorpius kisses me on the cheek, then wraps his arms around me. I let him hold me. I don’t know that I ever realized before how immense an act of trust this would be for me. Letting someone in like this. I’ve never had to do it before.

            After a moment, he pulls back, enough to kiss me. More confident than the other times, less like he’s worried I’ll run away. I don’t know why he should be worried. I’m the one who’s terrified he’ll leave at a moment’s notice.

            That’s not giving Scorpius enough credit.

            I twine my fingers into his curls. They’re as silken as I always imagined they would be. I tilt his head and glide my tongue along his lips. I feel, more than hear, the small sound he makes.

            The wind rises again, and we break apart. Smiling at me like we share a secret, Scorpius pulls me forward. We sit at the cliff’s edge and shelter one another against the cold.

 

At least, we do until Scorpius suddenly pulls away from me.

            “Fish,” he says.

            I look at him like he’s lost his marbles. “What?”

            “Fish!”

            I sniff, and say, “We’re just off the water, you bloody loon.”

            He scrambles to his feet. “No, it’s a different sort of—it’s an anti-apparition spell, I swear it!”

            Scorpius yanks me to my feet, and I yelp. “Calm down, it’s probably just—”

            He slaps a hand over my mouth and points back towards the town. The lights are coming on, one after another. Every time one illuminates, a crack accompanies, like it’s apparating into existence. Like when something’s been unvanished.

            And that might explain the people running at us with lit wands.

            Paling, I say, “The spell was just an illusion. You don’t think I—”

            “Have you ever tried it before?”

            “Not— _exactly_. Oh good _lord_ , we’re going to be arrested on our first date—”

            “Bugger that,” Scorpius says, throwing an arm around me. He pulls me close, whipping out his wand. What on earth does he think he’s doing?! It’s no use duelling over!

            From the near distance, someone yells, “I see them!”

            Scorpius points his wand at the sky and roars, “ _DISPARITUS ARMUM!”_

A tunnel of light barrels from his wand towards the sky, bright blue and roiling with electricity. I gasp as the power from it blows my hair back. Crashing into the anti apparition spell, it absolutely shatters the thing, which goes up in a puff of red cracks.

            Before I can even curse, Scorpius apparates us away.

           

He lets me go as soon as we touch down into my backyard. We fall away from one another, the sound of that massive spell still echoing in my ears.

            When I find my footing, I yelp, “What the _hell_ was that?!”

            Scorpius is cackling. He’s having a hard time standing up straight. When he catches his breath, he wheezes, “You vanished _Dover_!”

            “I did not!” I protest, and he loses it. “You don’t know that! Stop laughing! That was a very romantic thing I did, and maybe there was a slight hiccup, but I certainly did not vanish a town. Stop laughing this instant!”

            That just makes him laugh harder. Scorpius holds his stomach and bends over to howl.

            I stamp my foot, then point at him. “Never mind me, what about you?! What in the hell was that spell?”

            “Do you think—the whole of Dover—just suddenly appeared in the Vanishing Department? Think of all the Muggles in the Ministry!”

            I toss my arms up. “Fine! Fine, I accidentally vanished Dover. Oh well. What about you just throwing a bloody missile back there?”

            Scorpius stands up, getting a few last giggles out behind his hand. “It was a gift from Dad, for Christmas. Anti-anti-apparition spell.”

            “And you didn’t tell me?”

            “I was waiting for an occasion where I could really impress you.” He strides towards me with a devilish look in his eyes. “Like when you vanish a town and I have to rescue you from aurors.”

            “You did not rescue me—”

            Scorpius kisses me so soundly that I instantly cease being annoyed. He nearly swings me around. I throw my arms around his neck to hold on. My mouth is open against his, taking in his tongue, and I’m smashed with a tidal wave of happiness.

            I snog Scorpius Malfoy in my backyard, and it might be the best moment of my life.

            When neither one of us can really breathe anymore, I make myself pull back from him a few centimeters. I hold onto him, trying to force breath into my lungs. For a man who’s been restricted to kissing my cousin for the past few years, he certainly hasn’t missed any tricks.

            Scorpius looks me dead on and asks, “May I see you naked?”

            I stare at him, then burst out, “What happened to taking things slow?”

            “I said nothing about sex. I just—” He shrugs, looking down my body. “Want to see you naked.”

            Less than a minute later, I’m forcing Zamora back from the bedroom door again, saying over her yowls, “I’m so sorry, my love, I promise you’ll be cuddled later, I really am so sorry—” I shut the door, cringing at her loud dismay. “Dreadfully sorry about this!” I cast a silencing spell on the door.

            When I turn around, Scorpius is sitting on the end of my bed. Expectantly, he says, “Well?”

            Very quickly, I get a bit shy. It’s one thing taking your kit off for a man you’ll never see again. It’s entirely another to do so in front of the most attractive man you’ve ever met, who you’re madly in love with. But I’m no coward, so I walk over to the bed and stand in front of him.

            “Let me see your hand a moment.” Scorpius offers it up without question. Holding it, I use him for balance as I take off my socks. No graceful way to do that, so I might as well make him an accomplice. Once I’ve cast my socks aside, I reach for the hem of my jumper. Steeling myself, I peel it up and over my head, then drop it to the floor.

            I know I’m not that much to look at. I’m too skinny, with a few scraggly hairs on my chest that I can’t bring myself to pluck, since I’m relieved I can grow any at all. My nipples are embarrassingly tiny. At the moment, they could probably cut stone, and I don’t know whether to be exasperated with them or not.

            Scorpius isn’t looking at me like I’m not much to look at. His eyes drift over my torso like he’s drinking it all in, and appreciating what he sees. His gaze reaches the waistband of my trousers, and he looks up at me, as if saying, _next_.

            Very suddenly, I realize it’s not only my nipples that are at attention.

            I am not this easily excitable. I am an adult man with an active sex life. It takes me more than a gaze to get hard. At least, it did until this exact moment.

            Pretending to be unfazed, I unbutton my trousers, and push them and my pants down and off at the same time. Clearing my throat, I stand before him as if this is all perfectly ordinary. Yes, this is to be entirely expected. All is well. Nothing to see here. Other than my eager cock, pointing up and left, as it’s wont to do.

            It takes Scorpius a little while to react. When he does, he lifts a hesitant hand. I suck in a breath, and he looks up, unsure. I swallow, and nod him on. I’m fine. Absolutely fine. He is looking very intently at my prick, and I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to. He probably shouldn’t, if he’s not sure that he wants to. I don’t want him to do anything that he’s uncomfortable with.

            Scorpius runs the lightest touch over my length and—

            And—

            I don’t know how it happens. One second, I’m struggling not to shiver, and the next I am just spurting all over his chest like a man has never touched me before and oh my _God_ I cannot believe this is happening.

            It is a blessedly short orgasm, which is a gift and a curse, because I’m not insensible for more than a second. It also means I’m immediately tossed back into a reality where I just came all over my best mate’s shirt with little more than a touch.

            We both stare down at his shirt. His beautiful, expensive shirt, which I’ve just—fuck my life. Fuck it to the gates of hell.

            I start babbling, and I don’t know that I’ll ever stop. “I am—I am so incredibly sorry, this has never happened to me before and I mean that, I really do mean that—your shirt, oh fucking hell, I can’t believe—I’m telling the truth, I’ve never just gone off like a fucking second year discovering wanking for a first time—do you need me to clean it off, I can clean it off, I’m very good with cleaning spells—”

            Starting to laugh, Scorpius says, “Albus, it’s fine.”

            “No, it’s not _fine_ , I just splattered you like an amateur, after all that talk of how many men I slept with, and oh, that must mean I know what I’m doing, and then I plaster you with my semen, and this is the worst moment of my life—”

            “Shut up.” Scorpius takes my hand, chuckling softly. “Stop rambling. It’s fine.”

            I have to cover my face. I’m burning up. “What is _wrong_ with me?”

            “Do you know how flattering this is?” I wish the floor would swallow me. I can’t stand how kind his voice is. “If it’s this easy for me to turn you on, what will it be like when I make the effort?”

            “Please just let me die.”

            I squawk when Scorpius gives my backside a slap. “Stop it. Come here. Come lay down.”

            “No,” I moan. “Let me perish.”

            It takes him some work, but he pulls me onto the bed. I bury my face in a pillow, begging the powers that be to end me. I’ve never come so quickly in my life, and my body decides that this is the time? Traitor.

            When I finally force my head up, Scorpius is finishing up with a cleaning spell. He flops down beside me, beaming. Miserably, I groan,  “Enjoying my humiliation?”

            “I am, actually. It’s a relief, to be honest with you.”

            “How could this be any sort of relief?”

            “With your level of experience, I worried that I’d never be able to get you worked up.”

            “Yes, we’ve disproved that, haven’t we. Premature ejaculation on the first date. This might be the most English thing I’ve ever done.”

            Rubbing a hand over my arm, Scorpius laughs, “Stop that.” He turns on his side, smiling at me.

            Oh, damn it. I’ve spent the last few minutes wailing and whining. Gesturing towards him, I say, “Do you want me to—”

            Scorpius shakes his head. “Ah—no. I’m all right.”

            “My sexual inadequacy is going to prevent you from ever being attracted to me. I’ve fucked up our entire relationship—”

            “You melodramatic git. Take a breath. I mean it. I want you to take a deep breath for me. Try it, love. For me.” He takes a long breath in. I copy him. When I exhale, I find that it’s helped. Scorpius sees that, and says, “I just don’t think I’m ready. Is that all right?”

            “Yes,” I rush to say. “Of course—”

            “It’s not that the idea doesn’t appeal to me. It’s just—there’s a lot that’s new between us. I want to let that happen before anything else. Also, one of us making a fool of himself is probably enough for tonight.”

            His teasing me comes as a relief. “Agreed.”

            Scorpius pauses, then says, “It’s actually…a bit overwhelming. To have this amount of power over another person. I’ve never had that before. So I want to do this properly.”

            Bless him, because I think I would probably come all over him again if he disrobed. “I’m sorry this date was a disaster.”

            “Albus. This date was the _best_.”

            And I don’t know how, but somehow I know he’s telling the truth.

            So I get over my embarrassment, more or less, then I get dressed. We let in the cat and spoil her rotten until we fall asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

It is a very different thing, going to work when you have a boyfriend. Not even that, but a boyfriend I like. I don’t feel nearly so fatalistic about life. I don’t think about how much I hate other people, or how much I hate Suzette, or whatever thoughtless thing my family has done to me lately.

            No, instead I think about _him_. I think of him, and the anticipation of seeing him tonight is enough to put a secret smile on my face.

            We were out in the garden yesterday evening. It was unreasonably warm. I was taking care of the flora while Scorpius looked after the décor. He got it in his head that the whole backyard needed some fairy lights, and I’m not the type to stop him. I hassled him, and he hassled me, wanting to know why I didn’t just use my wand on the wisteria instead of spraying. I had to remind him that my godfather is a world famous herbologist, and therefore I’ve learned a thing or two about plants, and only a _barbarian_ would use their wand on the wisteria. He rolled his eyes, and after awhile I looked over to find him stripping his shirt over his head to wipe the sweat from his face. I was a bit in awe, actually. I just stood there, looking at the slim lines of him, the white plains of his back. Trying to figure out how this beautiful man thought I was worth taking a chance on. I snuck up on Scorpius after a moment, running my fingers down his spine, then kissing the nape of his neck. I had to flee at the purr he let out. Taking things slow and such.

            “Do you have a lady friend?”

            I blink, raising my eyes from the floor. “Sorry?”

            The old lady behind the counter, the one who’s been serving me coffee for the last two years and change, she’s holding my paper cup out to me and squinting. “Normally I wouldn’t say anything, but this last stretch is the first time you haven’t looked sour since you started coming in here.”

            Taking the cup, I reply, “I do _not_ have a lady friend. I do, however, parade about naked in front of a blonde man from a wealthy family, so I seem to be doing all right.”

            She snorts. “If he still likes it when you parade about naked at fifty, _then_ it’s worth smiling about.”

            There’s certainly some truth there. I salute her with my cup and head out the front door.

            June has been a bit brighter than May. Everything’s all green and fresh. Even this ancient city seems to have perked up. All the buildings around us have had their winter cleanup. Not us, of course. We must continue to look condemned. Inside, though, we’ve had a shine. Literally, a whole squad from janitorial went through at the start of June and made the place sparkle, and woe betide any who stepped on the freshly waxed floors for the next week.

            I stop at a short distance from St. Mungo’s, looking at its ramshackle exterior. The place is a dreadful menace. But I suppose it’s not all bad.

            A man staggers past me. After a moment, I recognize him. Craig Pickelpull. He was in Hugo’s year. Hugo said he was a decent sort. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, holding his belly.

            I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m feeling better about life thanks to spending so much time with Scorpius, but I walk up to him and says, “Hello, Craig. Trying to get to A&E?”

            He opens his mouth and sprays a veritable wave of bright purple vomit and teeth at my feet.

            Jumping back, I bark, “Fucking hell!” He got my trousers—Agnes’ teat, the _smell_! It’s utterly rancid, and for a second I think I might puke as well. Craig gasps, and I see that, yes, he’s lost about half his teeth. “Oh for—fine! Fine then!”

            Slipping my arm under his, I prop him up, then walk him as quickly as I dare towards the front entrance.

            I can’t seem to help myself lately, can I?! Good Samaritan Albus, like that’s a thing anyone asked for. I don’t understand why anyone does these things because it’s never worth it. You see a man die, another vomits on your trainers—why bloody bother?

            Craig seems about to have another go, so I call out to the mannequin behind the glass window, “Albus Potter, here because this man’s about to start vomiting out his spleen—”

            Craig does sick up again. Only this time it’s less purple and more red.

            Trying not to panic, I say, “Okay, that was a joke, but now it seems it wasn’t, so if you could please—” The mannequin is unmoving. I lose my patience. “Don’t be a bitch, just let me in!”

            I swear she rolls her eyes before waving us onwards. I drag Craig through the window.

            And into a vomit-soaked vision of hell on Earth.

            Everywhere I look, there’s puddles of sick. Some of it purple, plenty of it red, and far, far more teeth than should be seen outside the human body. Healers are rushing about shoving basins under people’s chins, struggling to vanish the spills. Their lime green robes, never the wisest of shades, are hues the likes of which should never be witnessed by the human eye.

            This is why I work in data.  The human body is disgusting.

            Craig starts to retch again, and I holler, “Should I just leave him on the floor, then?”

            One harried looking junior healer turns and nearly collapses in despair. “There’s another one!” he yells, sprinting across the waiting room and conjuring a basin at the same time. I carefully pawn Craig off to him, lifting my hands to show I’m now free of all responsibility.

            The admins behind the desk are the only ones who seem untouched by the whole mess. As I approach them, one gives me an apathetic nod of acknowledgement. Leaning against the counter, having checked for any errant puddles, I ask, “What’s all this?”

            “Black market anti Squib Spell. I suppose it _is_ impossible to be a Squib if you’re dead.”

            “Merlin’s beard. How do you deal with the odour?”

            With the gaze of the long since dead inside, she replies, “What odour?”  

            “Cool. All right, I’d best be—”

            “Is it true?”

            “Sorry?”

            “Is it true you knew about the Squib Spell before everyone else?”

            Startled, I say, “Where did you hear a thing like that?”

            She says one of my least favourite phrases in the English language. “Have you seen the paper?” I shake my head, on edge, and she holds up today’s copy of the _Prophet_. The front page bears the headline: ALBUS KNEW! In slightly smaller letters beneath it, the sub headline reads: MIDDLE POTTER ATTEMPTED TO ALERT THE MINISTRY FOR WEEKS—WHY DID NO ONE LISTEN?

            Instead of feeling justified, I mutter, “Bloody hell.”

 

As anticipated, magical Britain has lost its mind.

            It took three days for the original story to leak. At first, it was just that Hugo had lost his magic due to a spell. It was a minor miracle it took that long to get out, and a testament to Aunt Hermione’s continued hold on the magical world. But the Ministry runs on leaks, and once the papers got hold of the story, it was like putting a match to gasoline.

            The Ministry did try to handle it. They’ve always been far more interested in suppressing the public’s fears than telling the truth, so they attempted to reassure everyone that there was no immediate danger. Of course, witches and wizards are so used to the Ministry underselling things that they assumed the worst, and immediately became chickens with their heads cut off.

            Everyone is blaming someone different. Some think it’s a single person, some lunatic acting randomly. Others say a cabal of witches and wizards are roving the Isles, taking out whoever they don’t like. There is, of course, and unfortunately, a large contingent that are blaming Squibs. They say that they’re trying to make magical folk just like them, never mind that a Squib couldn’t actually cast a spell against them. There’s another group that says the whole thing is a Ministry plot, that they’re using the spell to get rid of anyone who disagrees with them.

            All this from Hugo and two dead homeless.

            Fatima Gundersen died a few days after Golightly. Poisoned herself. That’s two of the three we’re aware of. So we have all been keeping a close eye on Hugo.

            He seems to be taking things better than the rest of us. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but to some extent it is. After the first few days of staying with his parents, Hugo went back to his flat and made a very clear decision to live his life. He jokes with journalists who camp outside his house, condemns anyone who tries to blame Squibs, and doesn’t stop for one second to indulge in self pity. If he keeps this up, he might be the first Squib to ever be Minister one day.

            Rose has…floundered. I guess that might be the best way to put it. A lot of people seem to blame her for what happened to Hugo. The public has always been a bit enamoured of Hugo, and now they’ve grown protective of him. I can’t blame them, he’s been so brave about this whole thing. Rose has always been a little more difficult to love, something I know better than anyone. Everywhere she goes, though, there are people waiting to pounce. Ask her how she feels, if she still hates Squibs, how she could possibly live with herself supporting legislation that would affect her little brother. People throw things. I heard from Mum that she hasn’t really left the house save to go to work since the whole thing started.

            Of course, if you ask me who I feel sorry for, it would be Hugo long before it would ever be Rose.

            In our own family, there’s been a bit of a schism. My aunt and uncle aren’t speaking to Dad. I guess there was a blow up once they found out that he’d known and done nothing. I can’t recall them ever not speaking before. I don’t care for it, actually. Dad deserves it, obviously, but it doesn’t seem right.

            Now with this new development—the last thing I want is to be dragged into the story. I did my part, and I did it poorly. I wasn’t able to stop anything. Nothing I did was brave or wise. People are dead, my cousin is maimed, and the whole island’s lost its head.

            Best to stay out of the way, I think.

 

I have to find new ways to get to and from my office. I made the terrible error of using the main set of stairs after taking Craig to the A&E, and I have never been stopped so many times on hospital property. And those who didn’t have the courage to stop me, they stared.

            I _hate_ when people stare.

            After the third person asked me if I knew how to stop the Squib Spell, I did lose my temper a bit. “Yes!” I snapped. “I do, and I plan on telling everyone _but_ you.”

            When I got upstairs, Suzette was standing by the door. She barely bothered to fake her smile this time. “Hero of the hour, eh, Albus?” I didn’t bother replying to that, and just kept walking. She called after me, “I hope you enjoy being in the paper. You never know when you might pop up there again.”

            Now that it’s time for lunch—time to see Scorpius—I need to figure out the route to the exit with the least amount of people. Near as I can figure, it’s down through the service staircase (which we’re not supposed to take), then across Rehabilitation on the first floor, where the fire exit is hidden. Of course, it’s only hidden so that people don’t use it constantly; when there’s an actual fire it grows a big neon sign to let you know where to flee.

            Of course, that takes me through Rehabilitation. On a Tuesday.

            I could pretend like I’m hoping not to run into James, and to an extent I hope that I don’t. On the other hand…

            So I take the service stairway down, and when a janitor tries to stop me, I say loudly, “I know, I’m trespassing, tell security all about it.”

            When I get to the first floor, I poke my head out into the hallway before stepping out. There’s no one around, but I can hear people. I hear multiple healers exhorting their charges to do one more lift, one more swish. I’ve never actually been through here before.

            I know that James is here, though. He’s here several times a week. Mum and Dad could afford to send him somewhere private, but James was insistent on sticking with the program at the hospital. I’m actually a bit surprised by that.

            What is it that I think I’m going to do? Find him down here and pull him out of his session? He’d never agree to that. Why does this have to be so difficult? He’s my brother. I should just be able to…talk to him. Hypothetically.

            I need to get to the park. Scorpius will be there waiting for me. Early as always. It’s making my stomach a bit queasy to know that I’ll be running slightly late with this detour. I should just go.

            One of the doors opens, and James walks out. He’s covered in sweat, wearing a sleeveless t-shirt. Shoving his hair back from his face, he goes across the hall to the water fountain. He bends down to gulp down streams of water.

            Well, you’ve gotten this far. I ought to say something. Frowning, I force myself forward.

            James stands up, taking deep breaths. He’s shaking a bit from whatever he was doing in there. I chew on my lip a moment, then say, “Hi.”

            James glances over at me, then immediately looks down. “Hi.”

            He completely avoids looking at me. For a second, I can’t think of what to say. “You’re…working hard.”

            “Trying.”

            We stand here, two people who look like one another, who share genes, who should be able to at least _speak_. The both of us can’t quite manage it.

            He’s my brother. He’s my brother.

            Unable to look at him either, I say haltingly, “That…thing…that you told me about. That your friend told you about. I’ll take care of it.”

            That felt terrible. Admitting it. I know I did a shitty thing, a morally reprehensible thing, but having another person tell me so just rubbed me wrong. I’m not a child anymore, though. I need to stop having so many excuses.

            “Okay.”

            “And I…am sorry for what I said to you that day. It was cruel. Even for me.”

            “Okay.”

            That’s about all I can stand. “Good talk,” I say, walking around him. “Take care.”

            I walk as quickly as I can down the hallway, and if James wants to say anything else, it’s not like I give him the chance.

 

“I may be mistaken but I have the impression your body is here and your mind elsewhere.”

            Scorpius is halfway through that sentence before I realize I should pay attention. Smiling tightly, sitting taller, I say, “Present and accounted for.”

            He raises an eyebrow. He looks just remarkably fetching today. New haircut. The sides of his head have been shaved, leaving a riot of pale curls on top. It’s all I can do not to reach out and thread my fingers through them in the middle of the hospital tea shop.

            “If that’s true, what’s the last thing you remember me saying?”

            Smugly, I answer, “You were telling me about the legislation regarding minors and homelessness, and how it ties into the Muggle Children’s Act of 1989.”

            “I was. Five minutes ago.”

            My face falls. “It was not.”

            Amused, Scorpius nods. “At least.”

            I squeeze my eyes closed briefly. “Sorry. Good boyfriends are supposed to be attentive and listen when their significant others ramble on about work. I’ve seen it in films, so it must be true.”

            “Ramble on, eh?”

            “You just bore me so deeply.” I prop my head up, smiling crookedly. Scorpius can’t help but smile back. I give his tray a nudge. “Go on. Tell me again. I’m listening this time.”

            I’m not. As Scorpius starts to tell me about the legal definition of ‘local connection,’ I’m not paying even the slightest bit of attention. I’m keeping a good face, but I am fretting to the point of an ulcer.

            It’s because Sian Tolliver has bloody disappeared.

            I had tried to subtly reach out over the past little while. A note here and there, hanging around the usual haunts. I didn’t do anything straightforward because it’s clear at least one auror has her eyes on him. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary, to not be quite able to find him.

            But since I saw James a few days ago, I have _really_ tried, and it’s like Sian has vanished.

            I used the last of my polyjuice to rent an owl without the press catching wind of it. The last time I did that, I heard back from Sian within the hour. This time I’ve received zero reply. Last night I spent hours apparating to one club after another, all over the island, knowing where he likes to show his face. I asked bartender after bartender if they’d seen him, and no one has in weeks, if they’re telling the truth.

            Interrupting Scorpius, I say, “Stop it, I _am_ listening.”

            “Then what did I just say?”

            “You said you were going to marry Nibbly because she was in the family way. You’re so old sometimes, no one’s said ‘the family way’ since the 1950s.”

            Arms crossed on the table, Scorpius says, “Can you blame me? You’ve got this glazed look in your eyes. What is it? What’s wrong?”

            I could tell him. I could ask for his help.

            Except I couldn’t. I don’t doubt that Scorpius would do his best to help me clean up this mess, but I couldn’t bear the idea of him filthying his hands because I did something stupid. I’m in this position because of my pride. I went to Sian because I couldn’t stand the thought of asking my parents for help. I made this choice, and it’s my responsibility to take care of it myself.

            “Thinking about all the people out there panicking,” I lie. “Because of the Squib Spell.” Scorpius narrows his eyes. “What?”

            “Albus, don’t take this the wrong way, but—you’ve never exactly shown concern for the general public before. You have to come up with a better excuse than that.”

            I toss a piece of broccoli at him. He tries to catch it with his mouth, only it hits him in the nose. Snorting, I say, “You deserved that.” I catch someone looking at me from my peripheral vision. Turning my head, I find Rebecca standing in line at the counter, gazing at me. I nod to her, but she looks away from me, back at her tray. All right, then.

            “Tell me. Tell me what’s really on your mind.”

            “You didn’t let me finish before. I was thinking of how people are having a panic over something the rest of the world does as a matter of course. I was thinking they’re all a herd of ridiculous sheep.” I pick up a carrot and tell him, “I was also thinking what it would look like having my fingers in your mouth.”

            “To what end?”

            “A good end.”

            Scorpius considers it, then shrugs. “We’ll put that on the list.”

 

It’s two days later, and I haven’t had my fingers in his mouth yet, but this might be better.

            We sit on the sofa, me tucked into the corner with my feet resting on the table, and Scorpius laying back against me. My arm is wrapped around him, and occasionally I bend my head forward to inhale the scent of whatever it is he’s put in his beautiful hair. Zamora sits on his lap, fast asleep.

            We do this a lot. Just be together. Cozy. Like we’re already some old married couple. Except we probably like one another more than most old married couples. Most evenings and weekends, we’re at my house together. We’ll read, like this, or he’ll help me in the garden, or we’ll talk. Most of the time, though, we’re in close contact, just like this. I can’t stop touching him.

            Book held up with both hands, Scorpius slowly reads aloud, “But the evil one…ambushed young and old, death-shadow dark, and…love, what do we think this word is here?”

            I look at the word he’s pointing to. “Dogged.”

            “Yes, of course, how could I have missed that.”

            I smile crookedly at the spark of sarcasm in his voice. “Enjoying yourself?”

            Scorpius drops the book with a sigh, tilting his head back to offer me pleading silver eyes. “Why can’t we just read the Seamus Heaney version like everyone else?”

            Semi-offended, I answer, “Because if you’re not reading it from the original language yourself, you might as well not even bother.”

            Grumbling, Scorpius continues to translate the text from Old English. “Dogged them still, lured, or lurked…”

            This might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. I’ve been after Scorpius to read _Beowulf_ for years. I somehow struggled through _Song of Roland_ when I was eighteen for the bastard, the least he can do is be English enough to read our urtext. Over time, it became a running joke, me asking and him declining, for no reason other than to keep the joke going. But now he’s sitting here with me, translating the thing from the original language, speaking it aloud to me.

            I put my hand to his hair, brushing my face back and forth against his curls. I love his hair. He’s careful about it but also self deprecating about the work that goes into it. Leave it to me to fall in love with the palest, blondest white man on the face of the Earth.

            “What time is it?”

            I raise my eyes to the clock. “6:40,” I say regretfully.

            Scorpius lets out another grumble. He lays the book on his chest, open, and rubs vigorously at his eyes with his fingertips. “Merlin’s beard, that was so…Norse.”

            I squeeze him around the shoulders. “You’re such a martyr.”

            “I’m not complaining. I’ve never been one to turn down a good book. It’s just not exactly my cup of tea.”

            “Monsters and death instead of romantic chivalry.”

            “More or less.” Scorpius lays his head back so he can look up at me. “It’s good to practice my Old English, though. I use so few English spells. It’s an embarrassment, really.”

            “We all do. Fucking Romans and their Latin. 1400 years gone and still under their heel.”

            Scorpius lets out a laugh. “We’re such interesting people.”

            “Speak for yourself, I’m fascinating.”

            “Mm, you have your moments.”

            Sliding my hand along his face, I say, “You flatter me.”

            I bend down to kiss him. He tilts his head up, certainly not in a comfortable position, but it means I’m in control. I hold him in place, tongue flicking along the inside of his lips, enamoured as always of the taste of him, the feel of him.

            Scorpius suddenly jerks, and I pull back. Zamora has launched herself off of him. From personal experience, I know she has a habit of really digging her feet into the sensitive bits before jumping. “She’s heavier than she looks,” Scorpius groans.

            “Don’t fat shame my cat.”

            “ _Perish_ the _thought_. What am I, a monster?” Scorpius pushes himself to sit up. “All right. I should get moving. Dad expects me for dinner.” I nod, my mouth twisting. Scorpius glances at me, and smiles. “I have to leave sometime. If I didn’t, you’d only grow sick of me.”

            I should say something sardonic. I should say, yes, I’ve barely put up with you this long. Instead, I sort of shrug and look away awkwardly.

            That seems to please Scorpius to no end. Chuckling, he says, “You’re so _soft_.”

            Now that’s going too far. “I beg your pardon—”

            Scorpius hooks a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me over for a happy, warm kiss. “My soft, gorgeous boyfriend,” he laughs against my mouth, before kissing me again, open mouthed, and I melt.

            It’s so difficult, letting him leave. He’s here more and more, and sometimes I can keep him overnight, but much of the time he has to get to dinner with his father. It takes us an embarrassing amount of time to part, and we tease one another for it, but why the fuck would I ever want to let him leave?

            We part at the sound of an owl, scratching at the window. Grimacing, I say, “It didn’t fly into the window, so it’s obviously not yours.”

            As I go to open the window, Scorpius replies, “You make fun, but I know you love Aedesia.”

            “Whatever gave you that impression?” The sleek brown owl alights on the sill, offering me the letter in its mouth.

            “The fact that you keep owl treats by every single window.”

            I’m halfway to reaching for them. I stop, saying, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I take the envelope. “Shoo.” I feel just a touch guilty for that. First well behaved owl comes to my house in months and I have too much pride to reward it.

            I turn the envelope over to see the word ‘Aldrich’ written there, and I get a jolt inside. It’s the word Sian said he’d use if he ever needed to owl me. He never has before.

            “What is it?”

            Putting on a good face, I tuck the envelope in my back pocket. “Not a clue. I’m burning with curiosity, though, and the only way I’ll get you out of here in a timely manner is if I refuse to look at it until you’re gone. So, you know—get the fuck out.”

            Snorting, Scorpius gets to his feet. “All heart.”

            I meet him at the fireplace. “I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow.”

            “Are you free in the evening?”

            “Hugo and Kimber and I are getting together. She’s going to go over a bunch of Muggle things with him. You’re welcome to join.”

            Scorpius hesitates. I understand. We haven’t told anyone about us, and we’re certainly not in a rush. We’ve gone out a few times with other people, and the entire time it seems like they know everything, or we’re being too obvious about it. It’s quite stressful, honestly. “Revisit this at lunch?”

            I nod. “Sounds good.”

            He gives me another kiss, then wraps his arms around me. Same as he always has when we part. The only person in the world I could hug without ever wanting to let go.

            But I have to, because if I don’t know what Sian’s saying to me, I might have a heart attack and die. So I give Scorpius’ bottom a vicious pinch, and he jumps back with a yelp. I slap his arse just to get him going, and say, “Piss off back to daddy, then.”

            Eyeing me, Scorpius grabs a handful of Floo powder while lighting the fireplace. “You’ll have me out in bruises.”

            “For all you know, you might end up liking that.”

            Simultaneously, we say, “Put it on the list.”

            Grinning, Scorpius tosses the powder into the fireplace. He tries to turn back to me for another kiss, but I wave him onward. “Go! Before I decide to bloody keep you!”

            Scorpius laughs, “All right, all right!” Stepping into the fireplace, he gives me a wink, but he’s always been terrible at winking. I smile at the pure ridiculousness of this man. “Malfoy Manor!”

            He disappears in a _whoosh_ of green flame, and that leaves me with Sian’s letter.

            I put out the fire first. The last thing I need is for Scorpius to come back through. That done, I stick my wand beneath my arm and tear the envelope open. Pulling out the paper, I unfold it and read what he’s written.

 

            _Sorry, love. Bells can’t be unrung_.

 

            Fuck. That unbelievable bastard. He didn’t even have to know what I needed him for, he just figured it out. He probably thinks that I feel guilty for selling out a child. The truth is, I’ve tried to not even think about that.

            I can’t accept this. Suzette is looking for any excuse to get rid of me. If this gets out, she’ll grab hold of it and ruin my life. Esmerline told me, any leaks and I’d take the fall for it. I can’t just assume that Sian will keep this all quiet and behind the scenes. One time I gave him information that ended in a full inquest with the Wizengamot. It would be just my luck to have this blow up.

            Sian can be reasoned with. I’ve always given him good information. I’ve made him a lot of money. If I just talk to him—

            I knew this was coming. I knew that one day this would come back to bite me, and here we are.

            Hands to my face, I struggle to take deep breaths. Where would he be? I have to find him, I have to actually speak to him, so where would I find him?

            I’ve crossed paths with Sian more than once when I was out clubbing. We both have a tendency to seek out the new places. That’s why I spent the other night apparating all over the country, paying a king’s ransom in cover charges.

            I have to do it again. I’ll find him. I must have something else he wants.

            I try not to consider what that might be.

 

By midnight, I have been in and out of twenty seven clubs in London. I use my magic to waive the line, then I go in and search the place as well as I can, before I apparate off to the next one.

            This whole thing has the stink of desperation to it. What did I _think_ was going to happen, taking up with someone like Sian? Part of me knew it would end in disaster, because I’m cynical and usually believe the worst, but there’s another part of me that thought differently. That thought I was smart enough to get away with this.

            Here’s the thing, though: I might feel powerful because I hoard information, but Sian has all that information and infinitely more. I don’t know what I think I’m going to do once I find him, _if_ I find him, but it won’t be enough. I have to know that.

            Still I search. I search through dark bars with raging bass, flashing lights, drunks in barely any clothing, all of them (all of us) trying to find something beyond our grasp.

 

It’s coming up on one in the morning when I land on The Waylands, a small place not that far from Heathrow. There’s no line out front, and the bouncer nods me in without saying a word.

            When I walk inside, it’s no different from the other thirty plus clubs I’ve already been inside tonight. The music all just bleeds together at this point, not even sounding like music but a heartbeat pulsing too quickly, too relentlessly. People are good and drunk, raucous on the dance floor.

            At first, I don’t even bother looking around. I just stand here, my feet sore, my eyes aching. I have to be at work tomorrow. I should just have a drink, then go home.

            I won’t. I’ll keep looking. I have to.

            So—shoulders back, head up, Albus. You got yourself into this, get yourself out.

            Easier said than done.

            I scan the bar, taking a few steps as I go. It’s so strange being in here. Every other time until recently, if I was in a place like this, it was to pick up. Find some stranger, shag, then move on with my life.

            Now there’s Scorpius. My bright spot. I’m never letting him go, so long as he’ll let me keep him.

            When my eyes fall on Sian, I don’t even react at first. He’s dressed to the nines, as per usual, making it relatively easy to spot him. I thought that I’d see him and be relieved. What I didn’t count on was that he would be here with my sister.

            He’s here with my sister, and he’s holding a drink out to her.

            Lily looks down at it, and doubt flickers across her face. Then she smiles sweetly, and takes it into her hand.

            Relief is off the table. Instead, as I walk across the club aimed like a missile, sirens practically go off in my mind.

            Lily is focusing on whatever Sian’s saying, cocktail glass held with both hands, so she doesn’t see my approach. I don’t bother to see if Sian does.

            Reaching them, I snap, “Get that fucking thing out of your hand!”

            Jumping, Lily fumbles the glass. She spills it over her hands. Stricken, she says, “Al!”

            “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

            “It’s not what—” She quickly puts it down on the table. “I wasn’t going to, I was just holding it—”

            I don’t have time for her lies. Bundling my fury into a small, compact thing, I grab Sian by the arm. “You! Come here!” To Lily, I bark, “Get out of here! Go home!”

            Without protest, Sian lets me pull him away from Lily. I march him past the dance floor, down a short hallway to the supply room. Tossing him in there, I slam the door closed after us.

            Amused, Sian glances around the room. “How’d you find this, then? I can only imagine.”

            I’m not in the mood for his shtick. “What—the hell—are you doing with my sister?”

            “None of your concern.”

            “None of my concern? Really? My sister. _My_.”

            “As I understand it, she’s only _your_ sister when you want to be aggrieved about it, so no use getting high and mighty over there, Albus. She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself.”

            Steaming with anger, I say, “You stay the hell away from her.”

            “That’s not for you to decide, is it?”

            “She’s a drug addict and an alcoholic and you’re giving her a drink. What’s wrong with you?”

            “That’s her choice, isn’t it. Are you sure you want to be standing here yelling at me, Albus? I’m the one with the deep pockets, after all.”

            Clenching my hands into claws, I try to hold my temper. “I need—I need you to stop whatever it is you’re doing with what I gave you about Quarry.”

            Infuriatingly, Sian just shrugs, leaning back against shelves with his hands in his pockets. “No.”

            “What do you mean, no?”

            “It’s fairly straight forward, Albus. Some would even say monosyllabic.”

            “People know I gave it to you—that I’ve been giving you things. If you go forward with this, I’ll lose my job.”

            Sian looks at me blank faced. “So?”

            Disbelieving, I say, “So I’ll _lose my job_! I’m no good to you if I’m not at the hospital, am I?”

            “These things run their course. It’s the nature of things. There’s plenty of desperate bastards out there willing to sell whatever they get their hands on. Do you think you’re the only person I have at St. Mungo’s?”

            Keep it together, Albus. Stay calm. “I’ve been—I have given you good information. This whole time. I’m just asking you, this one time, please don’t.”

            “The answer’s no.”

            “Why?!”

            “Because I just feel like it.”

            “You what?”

            Sian raises his shoulders. “I don’t really need you, and you’re not in a position to make demands. Besides, I have you in a tight spot, don’t I? You thought you’d track me down, ask me nicely to take back something that’s already been done, and then you and I would just be done? That’s awfully naïve of you, Albus. And a bit disappointing. You and I aren’t done. Not unless I say we’re done. Now, I don’t really need you, as I’ve said, but I do like people knowing their proper place. And that’s beneath me. So you’re mine until I say you’re not. Maybe that’s next month. Maybe never. But you don’t get a say.” He smiles brightly, pushing himself off the shelves. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, your sister’s in a wee bit of a financial pickle, and she has all sorts of stories to tell. That’s two Potters in my pocket. Wonder how long it will take me to collect the set.”

            He walks towards the door.

            I’m stunned.

            Before I know what I’m doing, I have my wand in my hand, pointing it at him. “Don’t.”

            Sian turns around with a sigh. “Albus, don’t embarrass yourself.”

            My voice shakes a little. “Don’t fucking touch my sister.”

            “I won’t. Not yet, at least. You know when I will, though? When she’s the lowest of the low. See, right now, your sister thinks that if she smiles at me and is charming and funny, I’ll give her what she needs. I’ll give her what she _wants_. And I will—for now. But as time goes on, a lot of that shine will wear off. And she’ll know it, and I’ll know it. I’ll give her a little less each time, and she’ll get a little more eager for it, and we’ll just keep doing that over and over again until she’s begging for scraps, until she’s begging for any little thing I can offer. Then I’ll touch her, Albus.”

            “I will kill you—”

            Snorting, Sian says, “No you won’t. You lack the courage of your convictions. Say what you will about the rest of your family, but they’ve never been afraid of a scrap. You think words are weapons. They won’t protect you. Not in the end.” Sian reaches for the door handle. “Think of that, will you, while contemplating my cock in your junkie sister’s mouth—”

            I don’t realize I’ve screamed at him until the spell is pouring out of my body. “ _OBLIVIATE_!”

            It hits him so hard that his hair flies upwards. I’m flooding my magic at him like a wave, with every fibre of my being. My vision narrows, and blurs, like I am at the very front of a train going far, far too fast. It’s too much—it’s too much and I’m not even a person, I’m just a conduit for rage.

            This isn’t right. This is wrong—

            It cuts off abruptly, like a dam shooting from the earth fully formed. I waver here, vibrating.

            I drop my wand and fall backwards.      

            Oh. Oh no. I feel sick. Everything is swimming.

            For a short while, I simply lie here. I have to. I think I’ll vomit if I sit up. Hypothetically, I know there’s someone else in the room. However, I can’t be arsed.

            Once I get my breath back, I force myself upwards. Somehow, I sit up. Fuck. No, this was a bad idea. I shut my eyes to stop myself being ill. Breathe in. Breathe out.

            I need to open my eyes.

            I look across the room at Sian. He’s crumpled against the door, staring vacantly. There’s a large wet circle forming beneath him. I wait for him to say something, to ask what I’m playing at, to show any sign of recognition whatsoever.

            There’s nothing.

            “Sian?” I whisper.

            His lips part, ever so slightly, and a stream of drool courses from his mouth.

            I push myself backwards. No. Oh God, what have I done? What have I done?

            “Sian,” I say again. “Stop taking the piss. Say something.”

            It’s like I’m not even here.

            What do I do? I have to get out of this. I didn’t mean to _hurt_ him, but I didn’t mean to _not_ hurt him either, and it’s like he’s some empty shell, and I will go to prison for this. I didn’t mean to hit him that badly, but when I get angry like that, I don’t know how to control it—I can’t control it and then I just let it out in one big spell and things get damaged beyond repair—

            _You’ll regret it, you know. Get a handle on it, or something far worse will happen_.

            We’ve reached the bloody worst.

            I grab my phone, and start scrolling through my contacts. Who do I know who can fix this? Who can make this go away?

            He can.

            I press Send and put the phone to my ear.

            It rings a great many times. I expect it to. I don’t know why he’d have his phone on him, he’s not the kind of man to carry a phone—

            “Whoever this is, know that I will hunt you, I will find you, and I will cut out your tongue for using this number, let alone at such an ungodly hour—”

            “Mr. Malfoy?”

            There’s a long pause.

            “Are you in trouble?”

            I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes I am. He can’t know, he can’t know I did this—”

            When Mr. Malfoy speaks, his voice is perfectly calm. “Whatever you tell me will never be repeated to my son. It’s between you and I and no other. Whatever it is, I will take care of it. You will have no debt to pay to me, and whatever it is, we will never speak of it again if you do not wish it. Do you understand?”

            I feel like a child. I feel like I’m 11 years old, before school, before things fell apart. I feel like I’m scared, but I know that my father will take care of me. “Yes.”

            “Where are you?”

            “The Waylands. It’s a—it’s a club. Not far from Heathrow. The airport.”

            I expect him to say, ‘yes, Albus, I know that Heathrow is an airport,’ but he doesn’t. “Are you hurt or did you hurt someone?”

            “The…the latter.”

            “Oh good. Assassins cost more than clean up. Killed or maimed?”

            “Latter again. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

            “None of that. It’s done.”

            “No, I didn’t mean to, but he was—”

            “It doesn’t matter to me why. It matters that you’re in trouble, and you need assistance. And it’s probably better for both of us if I don’t have the details. So stop speaking and listen. I need to make a few firecalls, and you are going to stay on this ridiculous device with me until I can get the proper person to collect you. You’ll be in your own bed in less than an hour. Is there anything else I should know before proceeding?”

            “My…my sister might be a problem.” There’s no response. “Hello?”

            Mr. Malfoy mutters, “I can never escape your bloody family, can I.”


	14. Chapter 14

“We have an announcement.”

            We all looked up. The four of us were seated at the dining table, which had been shortened for the occasion. The Malfoy’s dining table was typically a thing of melodramatic glory, long enough to seat two dozen. But on that evening, it was Mr. Malfoy at one end, me at another, and Scorpius and Rose sitting side by side in the middle.

            I was immediately wary, as was Mr. Malfoy. I knew from a lifetime of experience that ‘we have an announcement’ are some of the most dangerous words in the English language. They never bode well.

            That, and Scorpius and Rose were having a silent conversation. Rose had said the words, but Scorpius looked completely off guard.   

            _I wasn’t ready_ , he was saying to her.

            With her steely smile, Rose replied, _now you have to be_.

            Scorpius frowned, then turned it into a smile. “We are—moving in together.”

            If they expected any reaction other than the one they got, they were fools. Mr. Malfoy and I did nothing. I stared at Scorpius, uncomprehending.

            When the silence became a little too much, Scorpius quickly said, “Not _tomorrow_ or anything like that. There’s no rush.”

            “No,” Mr. Malfoy, “of course not. You have—obviously—discussed this at length with Albus so that he can make alternate arrangements. I don’t imagine he can afford that flat on his own.”

            Flushing, Scorpius said to me, “Mate, I meant to talk to you—”

            I gave my head a single shake, cutting him off. I had spent years playing this game with my family. Having information sprung on me, only to have my father say, _I meant to tell you_. Pulling my hands underneath the table so no one could see my fists, I said evenly, “Congratulations to you both. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

            I looked at Mr. Malfoy. He studied me a moment, then smoothed his hand over his napkin. “Yes, well…we’ll have to look at properties, won’t we.”

            We struggled through a few minutes of conversation, and I managed to push out a few words here and there, but it was like sicking up gravel. Mr. Malfoy had years of manners beaten into him to survive the discussion. Rose looked pleased with herself, and I hated her, oh how I _hated_ her. Scorpius had shed his embarrassment, and only looked excited.

            I excused myself as soon as I was able, saying that I didn’t feel well. I went up to the usual room I slept in when we stayed at the Manor. I sat myself down on the side of the bed, and felt the thing curdling inside me slowly turn to flame.

            If I needed to scream, I knew that I could. My room was far, far down at the end of a hallway. That was how I liked it. I liked this beautiful old house with its many, many secrets. I wished that I had grown up here, so I could have been their keeper.

            But instead I was just another Potter, the middle child, perpetually alone except for when I was with Scorpius, only now he was going to leave me too, and I would be all alone, forever.

            When I stopped screaming, when my magic stopped rolling off me so hard it made my eyes bulge, the room was destroyed. All the glass had shattered, chunks of it stuck in the walls. The drapes were shreds. The bed frame was turned to splinters. There was even a crater in the floor beneath my feet.

            I hadn’t even needed my wand.

            Whimpering, I struggled not to pass out. That was when I saw Mr. Malfoy standing in the doorway.

            He was staring at the room with pointed brows, the colour drained from his face. I started babbling apologies at him, but he swiftly raised a hand, silencing me. Stepping into the room, he quietly shut the door after himself.

            With a glance, Mr. Malfoy found the only chair that had survived and summoned it to him. Dragging it the last few steps, he planted it in front of me, and sat down, neatly crossing his legs at the knees and folding his hands together. My head was hanging, so I was looking directly at the massive dark emerald he wore on his ring finger.

            “I didn’t mean to,” I wheezed.

            “I know you didn’t, and that’s what’s troublesome.”

            “I’m sorry—I _ruin_ things—”

            “Albus, close your mouth. For heaven’s sake, take some breaths. You’re paler than I am.” I closed my eyes, my head pounding. His voice was so calm, so even. It was a raft I could cling to. “When I was your age—when I was younger than you—I was angry all the time. We could ascribe both nature and nurture as the cause. I grew up in a household where negative emotions weren’t considered a negative. They were a force to harness. But there was also this terrible presence inside me. If I ever stopped to think about it, I’d be frightened by how angry I was. I was far too stupid to spend much time thinking, however.”

            “I don’t…know how not to be.”

            “I know. But you’re not a child, and ‘I couldn’t help myself’ is no longer a reasonable excuse. Other people will not understand. They don’t know what it’s like to have this sickness inside. It may feel good in the moment, to channel your rage outwards. It may feel like the only available option.” Mr. Malfoy shook his head. “You’ll regret it, you know. Get a handle on it, or something far worse will happen.”

            I nodded. I had to wipe the sweat from my face. I pulled in a few breaths, grounding myself, then sat taller. “I am very sorry about the room,” I said, forcing myself to look in his eyes.

            Mr. Malfoy nodded. Then he drew his wand. “Do you know what’s more gratifying than ruining things?”

            And he made the room good as new with a single flick of his wand.

 

I nearly startle out of my skin when Scorpius asks, “Are you all right?”

            That reaction was entirely out of proportion. His voice was soft, he didn’t come closer to me, he just spoke. I was so deep inside myself that I almost shat my pants.

            “Fine,” I’m quick to say. “Fine.”

            We’re walking down the street together in Chippenham. He needs to be home for dinner with his father in not too long, and I just…didn’t want to be on my side of the world for awhile.

            Scorpius isn’t convinced. “Is it about the Squibs?” he says quietly.

            A Squib couple in London was attacked last night. Their faces were familiar to me. I’d seen them at Squib rights demonstrations. Someone broke into their house and beat them both nearly to death.

            When I don’t answer, Scorpius steps closer. “Hugo’s safe, you know. People are angry about Hugo. They won’t hurt him.”

            It would be easy to say, yes, that’s what my mind is on. Yes, I’m worried about people turning their fear to anger, and aiming it at people who can’t defend themselves. Only I can’t bring myself to lie. “It’s a lot of things. I’ll be good, I just need to get home and have some time to myself.”

            “Did—I do something wrong?”

            “ _No_. No, of course not. I’m just…I’m out of sorts. It’s nothing to do with anything.”

            “Albus, I’ve known you a long time. You’re not the type to be sad for no reason. Angry, yes, but not sad. It’s been like this awhile now. Really, you can tell me what’s wrong.”

            I stop, putting up a hand. “Do you know what’s unlikely to get me to open up? Asking me the same question repeatedly while rewording it. Bloody Teresa May over here.” I keep walking, shoving my hands in my pockets.

            “I don’t know who that is.”

            “Of course you don’t.”

            Scorpius walks alongside me, silent a moment. “Are we fighting?”

            “Do you _want_ to fight?”

            Scorpius takes me by the arm, forcing me to halt. I look away, pressing my lips together. Scorpius studies me, then says, “Listen—when we were just friends and you were being grumpy, I knew what to do. I’d harass you into saying something or you’d go bugger off. Now I don’t know what to do. I have this terror you’ll be so irritated with me that you’ll—I don’t even know. So if you want me to just shut up or go away, or if you _do_ want to talk about whatever’s wrong and I’m asking about it the wrong way, could you please tell me?”

            He’s so kind. He’s so kind, and _good_ , and I’m the kind of man who’ll hex your brains out without even meaning to. It makes my head hurt. Rubbing my forehead, I sigh.

            I look down when he takes my other hand. We are very careful about public displays of affection. This is about as far as we’ve ever gone. Stroking his thumb over the back of my hand, Scorpius murmurs, “We’re in this together, you git. Whatever it is, I want to help.”

            My hand doesn’t look right in his. My cuticles are raw and red from paperwork and dust. His skin is perfect and luminous. “What could you possibly ever see in me?” I wonder, and I didn’t entirely mean to say that aloud.

            Clucking, Scorpius gives my hand a hard shake. “You’re daft. I adore you.”

            I have a split second of warmth before a clear voice says, “Boys. So glad I caught up to you.”

            Scorpius and I tear apart. I don’t know about him, but I feel my heart leap into my throat, struggling to flee through my mouth. As Mr. Malfoy walks up to us, my whole body tingles. He is going to _end my life_.

            He looks even more intimidating than usual, taller than us both, in his long, expensive black robes. Mr. Malfoy stops before us, clasping his ring covered hands together, looking at us expectantly.

            “Dad,” Scorpius stutters.

            “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought that Albus should join us this evening, and you do know I hate that dreadful telephone. So here I am. Albus, will you join us?”

            No. No, I wish for many more years of life, and the last place I should go if I want to live is Malfoy Manor if Mr. Malfoy is angry with me.

            “Yes?” I squeak. I’m not even embarrassed by that. If he knows I’m frightened, he might pity me too much to kill me.

            “Splendid.” Mr. Malfoy looks past us. “There’s that charming little bistro I was telling you about, Scorpius. We simply must have tea before dinner.” He walks right at us, and Scorpius and I spring even further apart. Passing between us, Mr. Malfoy says, “Come along. The scones are to die for.”

            Scorpius and I look at one another, wide eyed and panic stricken.

            But Mr. Malfoy snaps his fingers, loud as a shot, without slowing his step. “Chop chop!”

            We scramble after him.

 

“He’s going to kill me,” I mutter.

            “Shush.”

            “He is going to kill me.”

            “He’s not going to kill you.” Scorpius doesn’t sound convinced.

            Mr. Malfoy stands at the display near the door, nose nearly touching the glass. He’s studying the pottery for sale inside. Except I’m fairly certain he’s watching us in the glass, judging my every move and trying to discern the best way to dismember me.

            Struggling to breathe, I say, “I’m never leaving the Manor. They’ll find me in three hundred years in the catacombs, after he buried me alive, and my fingernail scratches will be all over the inside of the sarcophagus—”

            “My father isn’t a villain from Poe. Stop being hysterical. He might be fine about it.”

            “Fine?” I hiss.

            Scorpius is paler than usual. “Fine,” he repeats, his voice faint.

            The waitress sets down our pot of tea with several delicate china cups. I didn’t see her pour for anyone else, but she takes a glance at Mr. Malfoy and pours us each a cup.

            Mr. Malfoy returns, sweeping back his robes as he sits. “Lovely. Thank you very much.” The waitress smiles wanly, and I get the impression she could tell some stories. She leaves and it’s just the three of us. Mr. Malfoy on one side of the table, Scorpius and I on the other, in a rustic little tea house in Chippenham. Mr. Malfoy pushes the plate of scones towards us. “They have just a hint of cherry. You must try them.” When neither of us move, Mr. Malfoy says, “I _insist_.”

            We both take a scone. I look at mine a long moment. Could he have poisoned it while I wasn’t looking? Could he have poisoned it while I _was_? I have to eat it. I take the smallest of bites. Cherry. Yes.

            Wait, isn’t there a poison that tastes like cherries?

            Scorpius hold his scone without trying it. That was probably the smarter decision. Mr. Malfoy sips his tea, seemingly oblivious to our discomfort. He doesn’t even look at us, but away and out the window. The tension is unbearable.

            Once he’s swallowed, Mr. Malfoy says, “So how long has this been going on?”

            I want to shrivel. Maybe that’s the poison at work. Scorpius looks at his scone, then sets it down. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

            Head twisting, Mr. Malfoy says sharply, “Malfoys do _not_ apologize. Particularly when the help can overhear.”

            The waitress is two tables down. She looks offended. I shrug apologetically, but then I realize that she _was_ eavesdropping, so she deserves whatever she gets.

            Setting his cup down on the saucer, Mr. Malfoy leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at the knees. “Why are you apologizing? Are you ashamed of something?”

            I glance at Scorpius. He’s gazing at his father. “I am not ashamed of anything,” Scorpius says, and there’s an undercurrent of anger to his voice. I have never, not in thirteen years, heard him use that tone of voice with his father.

            “Then why are you apologizing? Albus, do you feel you need to apologize?”

            “Do you want me to?” I reply. Scorpius kicks me under the table and I clear my throat. “I mean, no, of course not.” I put my head down, however. If Mr. Malfoy doesn’t kill me, he’ll do worse. He could blackmail me in ways I can’t even think of.

            “I’m not sure what you’re both being so awkward about. You certainly can’t be concerned about my opinion.”

            Scorpius inhales through his nose. “Of course your opinion matters. To some extent.” I shut my eyes, trying not to groan.

            “Albus, are you quite all right?”

            “Stop it.”

            “Scorpius, you’re being very peculiar—”

            “You know you intimidate him, and I do not appreciate whatever you’re doing right now.”

            “I simply asked how long you’ve been together. I’ve known for three weeks, so I assume it can’t be more than a month.”

            We gape at him.

            I say shortly, “You knew.”

            Mr. Malfoy looks at me, raising his shoulders. “Of course.”

            I continue giving him a hard gaze. He knew, when I called him about Sian. Did he do it knowing this moment would come? Was it leverage to get me to leave Scorpius?

            Scorpius says slowly, “What’s going on?”

            Mr. Malfoy sniffs. “I’m not sure what you mean. You’re both being overdramatic about this whole thing. A father is allowed to ask questions when it regards his son’s happiness.”

            “Well, I’m happy. I’m happy with Albus.”

            “Splendid. You have my blessing.”

            Scorpius gives his head a shake, squinting. “What?”

            “Do we need to have your hearing checked?”

            Scorpius sits there with his mouth open a moment. “Seven years—seven years I was with Rose, and I could never get you to say those words. You would never give us your blessing. You’re honestly telling me you’d give your blessing to this?”

            There’s a hard flicker to Mr. Malfoy’s eyes. “Do you think Albus is undeserving of it?”

            “Of course not—”

            “Then _what_ are we arguing about?”

            Scorpius drops back in his seat. He looks baffled. I know the feeling.

            Mr. Malfoy takes up his cup and saucer again. “You’ve both given this a great deal of consideration?”

            We relax a bit at that. It’s actually a relief to hear some doubt. “Of course we have,” Scorpius says.

            “It’s a terrible gamble. You have an enviable friendship. Not everyone is so lucky to find that. You understand that pursuing this could destroy something precious.”

            He’s not serious, is he? I mean—I respect Mr. Malfoy, and he’s always been kind to me in a Malfoy kind of way, but he can’t actually be legitimately concerned about this. Can he?

            “I assure you,” Scorpius says, “it was discussed. We have chosen to move forward.”

            “And if it ends badly?”

            “We agree that we will do everything possible to stay friends. Albus will always be a part of my life, no matter what. I only hope he believes the same of me.”

            Mr. Malfoy gathers himself and gives us a smile, though it’s not particularly warm. “Well—cheers to the happy couple, then.” He narrows his eyes at his cup. “One shouldn’t toast with anything other than alcohol, though. We shall have to open the ’98 pinot noir once we return to the Manor.”

            I don’t know what’s going on. Is he angry? Is he biding his time? Is he okay?

            Scorpius asks, “How did you figure it out?”

            “Nibbly told me.”

            “Jesus,” I murmur.

            “ _Nibbly_?” Scorpius says.

            Mr. Malfoy nods. “Yes, apparently you had something of Albus’, and Nibbly found it when she was doing the laundry.” I look at Scorpius. He’s blushing. I have no idea what Mr. Malfoy is talking about, but Scorpius clearly does. “She was rather distraught.”

            “Maybe Nibbly should listen when I tell her not to go through my things.”

            “You’re welcome to tell her that.” Mr. Malfoy inhales deeply, then says, “I’m not sure why you wanted scones. You’ll ruin your appetite.”

 

We have dinner at the Manor, and Mr. Malfoy is a perfect host. He carries the conversation, never retelling a story I’ve heard before. He’s clever and catty and knows more about international finance than I’ll ever know about anything.

            And yet I can’t help but be on edge.

            Scorpius does his best to act as if nothing is amiss. He smiles at all the right points during his father’s stories, and tells a few of his own. But I see him watching his father, looking for the slightest hint.

            Nibbly is far more obvious about plotting my demise. When she sets the plate before me, Mr. Malfoy says, “Nibbly, I was just thinking about how much we care for Albus, how he’s a part of the family, and how sad we would be if anything were to happen to him.”

            Scowling, Nibbly takes my plate back. “Nibbly is thinking there is not enough salt, is taking back to kitchen.”

            “Thank you, Nibbly,” Mr. Malfoy says offhandedly. He sets his own plate before me, then continues talking about the goblins who infiltrated Deutsche Bank. When Nibbly comes back with the plate and sees that Mr. Malfoy will be eating from it, she leaves again and returns several minutes later with a third attempt.

            Once the wine comes out, Scorpius touches his wand to my glass, checking for illicit substances. “When did you become so paranoid?” Mr. Malfoy asks.

            “I’m a Malfoy,” Scorpius says with grim cheer. “It’s my birthright.”

            There’s no poison in my glass, and so I drink, and when my glass is emptied I have another in short order. I’m nervous. This is not like dinner with my family. I have no worries about impressing my family and no hopes of winning their approval, so I can be myself. But I want Mr. Malfoy’s respect, and I’ve never had to win over a romantic interest’s parents before. I simply haven’t cared.

            I care so much that it’s making it difficult for me to speak.

           

I’ve finally had enough wine to relax a touch. So when Mr. Malfoy passes me another glass, I take it without argument. Scorpius accepts one as well, seated on the sofa beside me.

            We’ve moved to the study. It’s elegant without being overstated. The furniture is covered with rich green leather that doesn’t squeak when you move against it. It’s dark, and I don’t know how it got that way. After all, we’ve nearly reached the longest day of the year.

            Dinner was an event. That’s what it was. Dinners at the Manor always involve multiple courses.

            Mr. Malfoy has shed his robes. He tugs on the bottom of his black waistcoat as he sits in a tall chair across from the sofa. He takes his glass of wine, sipping at it, and watches the fire.

            He seems strangely relaxed. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s not sitting up straight. Mr. Malfoy has _perfect_ posture, something that he drilled into Scorpius. It’s a thing I could never achieve. Tonight, though, Mr. Malfoy is leaning back, looking a little more human.

            This is his place. That’s what it is. Like when I’m on the sofa with Zamora and a book. I feel like the center of the universe, with nothing to prove to anyone.

            I lay my head back against the sofa, watching the fire. The minutes pass quietly, no one trying to fill the silence.

            Scorpius lets out a snore. I look at him in surprise. He’s passed out, drooped to the side.

            “Albus, be a good man and shut his mouth, will you? He’ll tear a hole through his sinuses.”

            Looking at Scorpius, I ask, “Did you drug him?”

            “If I say no, you won’t believe me. If I say yes, you’ll fear me. Best that I say nothing at all.”

            I reach over, gently pushing up Scorpius’ chin. He frowns slightly, but stops snoring. I watch him a moment, looking like an angel in the firelight. I take his glass, setting it on the table.

            A blanket floats through the air. Settling on him, it works to tuck him in. Mr. Malfoy puts away his wand, and has another drink. He looks older than usual. And tired.

            Playing with my glass, I consider what to say to him. The straight forward route? Circumspect? What’s the best way to approach a man who frightens me, who I respect? What’s the best way to tell him I’d cut his throat before I let him separate me from his son?

            I can’t come up with anything, so I settle for small talk. “I’ve always meant to say—that’s a beautiful ring.”

            Mr. Malfoy glances down at his rings, trying to discern which one I mean. I gesture to his left hand, which can only mean the one. Mr. Malfoy stretches his fingers, looking at his wedding ring. “Yes.” He pulls it off, for the first time I’ve ever seen.

            To my shock, he tosses it to me. Sucking in a breath, I catch it, though I certainly fumble. I set my glass on the table so that I have both hands available. It’s heavy, make no mistake. Silver, or maybe white gold, engraved to resemble snakes. The emerald is the darkest green I’ve ever seen. It’s cut in a bit of a square, with more ridges than you usually see on an emerald.

            “Victorian cut,” Mr. Malfoy says. “Though the ring is far older than the name.”

            “It’s extraordinary.”

            “Greengrass family heirloom.”

            I lean forward to pass it back to him. Mr. Malfoy takes it into his hand, but doesn’t put it on. I fold my hands together, and say hesitantly, “I don’t…remember Mrs. Malfoy that well.”

            “No. You wouldn’t, of course. I think you only ever caught sight of one another at King’s Cross.”

            “What was she like?” I don’t know if I should have asked that. I’ve never asked Mr. Malfoy about his wife, and he rarely speaks of her.

            Mr. Malfoy nods at Scorpius. “She was him.”

            I glance at Scorpius. He looks so peaceful.

            “Everything about him that’s good and kind, that’s his mother. She was…radiant. Every time I looked at her, I wondered how…how she could have ever chosen me.”

            “How did you meet?”

            “Hogwarts, of course. Where we all meet. But that’s not correct at all. She was two years younger than me, and so I paid her very little attention. That and I spent my teenage years trying to murder everyone, so I didn’t exactly have time for the Astoria Greengrasses of the world. I suppose I met her properly at her sister’s wedding. My mother forced me out to events, trying to get society used to seeing my face. No one wanted us, of course. We were sent the invitation as a miscommunication. But nonetheless, there we were, and in the midst of everything, I saw the most beautiful girl. Everyone else was preening and trying to be seen, and she just sat there, watching everyone. No one watching her but me. I asked her to dance, and we danced until she couldn’t anymore. And then we talked for hours. I’d never been in love before, but by the end of the night I knew I would never love anyone the way I did her. And I was right.” Mr. Malfoy taps his thumb against his glass, then says to me, “You know, my parents didn’t approve of her.”

            I know, but I say, “Why not?”

            “Everything about Astoria was antithetical to my family. She found a pig with three legs and a bloody stump as a child, and nursed it back to health, kept the thing as a pet for years. _My_ father’s favourite peacock started to lose its feathers, and he thought it unbecoming, so he killed it before it could become an eyesore. Astoria looked at the outside world as something mysterious, intriguing, even if she had no desire to be an adventurer. My family always looked inward. So terribly inward, wrapped and smothering in centuries of tradition. She was raised with the same opinions I was about Muggles and Muggle borns, and she saw how horrible the world was when those thoughts flourished, and so she taught herself to think differently. Astoria was…sweet. No one with the last name Malfoy has ever been sweet until my son, and it’s only because he’s hers. My family thought she was weak. They told me I’d regret marrying her. That it was a mistake, and I’d see the error of my ways, and they would rescue me once I tired of her. Astoria thought I was brave for not doing what they wanted of me, but it wasn’t. There was no choice. It was only ever her. Only her.”

            Mr. Malfoy frowns, shaking his head. “It worries me that neither of you can see that I’ve little issue with your relationship. I know what it is to love someone everyone thinks you shouldn’t. I’m sympathetic to your cause.”

            “But?”

            “What ‘but’ could there be, Albus?” Exasperated, Mr. Malfoy says, “Do you know what I thought when Rose finally left him?” I shake my head, and Mr. Malfoy closes his eyes, letting his head fall back. “I thought, _thank Salazar. Thank Salazar, I am so grateful. Now there’s Albus, and Albus will worship him._ I look at you, and you love him the way I loved her. How could I not want that for him?”

            “I know I…can’t be what you wanted for him.”

            “Why not?”

            Where to start? “My father’s Harry Potter.”

            Mr. Malfoy sighs. “Not to stress a painful subject for you, but you’re as much Harry Potter’s son as an elephant’s, which is to say not at all. Your father and I have never been on the same page about anything. He was happy to let people believe my son was the progeny of a monster—that I took my wife back in time to be fucked by a mass murderer.” In that moment, it’s easy to see how this man could cut another down. His silver eyes smolder. “He blamed my child for a thing you instigated, and did everything in his power to punish Scorpius for it. I don’t like your father. I loathe him, frankly, for any number of things he’s done over the years. What I find…both perplexing and galling is how he has treated you. Your father doesn’t like you. He’s blind to the man you’ve become, which in my opinion is a better one than he could ever be. Only he thinks you’re a little too much like us. And that’s what bothers me about it. Not that you’re his son, but that he doesn’t treat you like it.” Mr. Malfoy shakes his head, scowling. “I may not have been the warmest father to my child, but I would move heaven and earth for him. If you had been mine, I would have done the same.”

            “I’m not a good man.”

            Mr. Malfoy cocks his head. “Tolliver?” he asks. Ashamed, I bend my head. “There was a stupid mistake.”

            “I didn’t…I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought I did, but…”

            “I’ll presume you needed money.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why didn’t you come to me?” Hunching my shoulders, I find myself unable to answer the question. Mr. Malfoy answers for me. “Pride. And suspicion. I’ve helped you with money before. I would have done it again.”

            “Not like this. You helped me make decisions; you never _gave_ me money. I’m not—I’m not like my brother and sister. If I need money, I will find it. I don’t need to ask for it.”

            “But you should have. You didn’t, so you ended up hexing a man so hard I doubt he’ll ever remember how to string together a sentence, let alone hold a wand. I understand the impulse towards taking care of one’s own problems, but when it’s unmanageable, you come to me. I will take care of it.”

            “Why?” I ask helplessly.

            “Because…my son doesn’t need me. He loves me. I know that. But he has little use for me. He knows what he wants from life, and achieves it on his own. I like to be needed, Albus. I like to feel that I’m needed.”

            We don’t say anything a moment. Then I say what I know is unforgivable about me. “You can’t want him to have a family with me, of all people.”

            Mr. Malfoy narrows his eyes at me, then asks, “He doesn’t still think I want him to have children, does he?”

            “Ah…yes.”

            “It seemed of greater importance, when he was younger. To carry on the family name. To know that Astoria would have descendants. The older I become, the wiser I become—it seems more and more clear that it would be a terrible risk.”

            “Risk?”

            Mr. Malfoy says flatly, “There is something rotten in my family line. Something curdled and dead. What if it only skipped a generation with him?” Mr. Malfoy shakes his head, relaxing even more and watching the fire. “No. I would not take the chance, if the decision were mine.”

            “What would…what would she have thought of all this?”

            He smiles faintly. “She would not be so sanguine. For all her sweetness…she was so remarkably stubborn. Beautifully stubborn. I think she would have quietly had you killed.”

            The sentiment is spoken fondly, but I can also tell he’s completely serious. I look at him, trying to find the pieces of Scorpius in his features. “Will you ever remarry?”

            Mr. Malfoy scoffs. “No. Well—if it were financially advantageous, I wouldn’t be averse to forming a partnership of convenience. If you’re asking me if I’ll ever love again, the answer is an unequivocal no. Don’t get me wrong—there have been other women over the years. A few men as well. But none of them were fit to tie Astoria’s shoes. I was blessed, and cursed. I will love one person, and one alone.”

            “It sounds lonely.”

            Mr. Malfoy tells me, “It’s worth every second I had with her.”

 

Once Scorpius is in the bed, I go about getting myself ready as well. I take off my shirt, folding it and setting it aside, then I take my mobile from my pocket. It’s late, but I check for messages.

            There are two from Hugo. ‘Great news, call me!’ Then another from not too long ago: ‘Too late, going to sleep, call me tomorrow you sad bastard.’ Snorting, I put the phone on the dresser, then find some pajamas.

            From behind me, Scorpius mumbles, “Did I fall asleep?”

            “Yes you did.” Are these silk pajamas? I think they must be. I change into them, just so I can say I’ve worn silk pajamas at least once.

            “You and Dad…have a chat?”

            Turning back, I answer, “Yeah.”

            Scorpius is barely awake, his eyes still closed. “He scare you?”

            “No. I actually feel better.”

            “Good.” I climb under the blankets with him, and Scorpius reaches out a sleepy arm, his fingers curled. “Come.” I scoot over so he can lay his arm across me. He moves close enough for me to feel his warmth, then settles down.

            I think about all that Mr. Malfoy said. I really was just being paranoid. He’s always been good to me. He’s been better to me than my own father. People think poorly of the Malfoys, and perhaps with good reason, but he’s never been that way with me. I think I’ll trust him. I already do, but now it’s a choice. He wants what’s best for Scorpius, and that means what’s best for me.

            I say to Scorpius, “Did you know your dad’s slept with men?”

            “Mm.”

            I whisper, “Your dad’s had anal sex.”

            Scorpius replies, “So’s your dad, but it was with your mother.”

            I gag, and I love him.


	15. Chapter 15

A teenager screams, “SQUIB RIGHTS!” next to my ear, so I turn around and scream back at him, “We can bloody hear you, so _tone it down_!” He startles backwards, and I continue working my way through the crowd with Scorpius.

            I loathe crowds, and there are a few hundred here in the park. It’s actually the park that will be named for Dad in a few weeks. Wonder where they’ll put the statue. Today a fair chunk are wearing red and white, or have their pins on. Plenty are just curious, however. Hugo’s going to speak publicly for the first time, and witches and wizards are by nature a curious lot.

            Rylance McTavish is up on the small stage speaking, working everyone up. Trying to get everyone into a positive attitude, a fighting attitude. I understand why they’d be scared. Those two Squibs who were attacked—one of them died.

            The thing is, though, that seems to have turned the tide of public opinion. People might be uncomfortable over Squibs, but having one of them murdered? No one wants to be on the side of that. People are being a lot more vocal, condemning the violence. So maybe _something_ positive can come of this whole mess.

            “Oi!” Tim is waving at us from near the front. He jumps up and down, whistling.

            “Yes, we can see you,” I mutter.

            Scorpius is cut off from me, and he looks back. It would be easier to just take his hand, but that’s not how we do things. I push my way through to him.

            When we reach Tim, he’s clapping along with the rest. Leaning over, he says, “Where were you two, then?”

            “Hold up at the Floo,” Scorpius answers. “Too many people trying to come into the city. Albus landed on an old woman.”

            “The old woman didn’t move out of my way fast enough,” I counter.

            “Hugo gone up yet?”

            The applause rises again, and Tim says over it, “No, he’s after Rylance. He said he has a surprise for everyone.”

            “I hate surprises,” I say.

            “I love surprises,” says Scorpius.

            “You love surprises, you can come to the Burrow with me after this.”

            “Much as I’d love to break bread with your entire extended family to celebrate Hugo’s triumph, I really do need to get together with my cousins before they head back to Calais.”

            “You could _apparate_ to Calais any time you like. Tim, are you coming?”

            Tim barks. “To dinner with the Potters and the Weasleys? I’ll spare myself, thank you. Any way, see that bird over there?” We look to where he juts with his chin. There’s a skinny blonde with short hair. She gives Tim a glance and crooked smile. “I’ll be eating out, lads.”

            I roll my eyes, and look around for members of my family. They’re easy to spot. If you find a red head in a crowd like this, odds are they’re a Weasley. Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione are standing with Mum. Uncle George has his arm around some girl who looks barely out of Hogwarts. Blimey, there’s Teddy. When did he get back in town?

            I’ll be seeing them all for dinner. The entire clan is meeting at the Burrow. Hopefully there will be so many people that I can get through unscathed. And the focus will be on Hugo after all.

            Dad’s not here, of course. Mum said he was worried that showing up would make the event about him. He’s both presumptuous and right.

            The crowd is reaching a fever pitch. Uncomfortable, I hunch in on myself and lackadaisically clap along with the rest. Scorpius elbows me, and when I glance at him, he smiles. It’s hard to be sour when he smiles at me.

            Once the applause has died down a bit, Rylance says, “Now you’ve heard me talk enough, so I want to introduce someone very important to this community. Someone who’s joined this community with grace, with enthusiasm, with the kind of mindset we should all aspire to. I’d like to welcome to the stage Hugo Granger-Weasley.”

            This time I really clap, hard as I can. Hugo walks out, a spring in his step. Rylance passes him the microphone, and Hugo holds it this way and that at first, frowning at it. He puts it up to his mouth and says, “Hello?” It’s far too loud, and he startles. Laughing at himself, Hugo holds the microphone further from his mouth and tries again. “Good afternoon.”

            Someone in the crowd yells, “We love you, Hugo!”

            “That’s very kind, thank you.” He locks eyes with me, and gives a wave. I smile at him, so very proud. Hugo looks back out at the crowd. “You may not be familiar with me. I come from a very humble family that’s done little of note.” That gets a laugh. “My name is Hugo Granger-Weasley. I am an author, an adventurer, and I just so happen to be related to three of the most famous heroes in the world. Some of you might recall my mother briefly served in some capacity in the government.”

            More laughter. The bastard really is excellent at public speaking. The idea of getting up there and standing in front of all these people makes me want to shudder.

            “I have in many ways lived a charmed life. I have a wonderful family, a job I am passionate about, amazing friends, and until a month ago I was a wizard.” Hugo takes a breath and says, “On the morning of May 31st, I was attacked outside my home by someone who has yet to be identified, and that person stole my magic. Over the span of seconds, I went from being the luckiest man on Earth to something no one else has ever been before. An ex-wizard. For all intents and purposes, I am a Squib.

            “The immediate response to what happened to me was horror, and pity. In all my life, I have never been pitied. People all around me behaved as though I had a terminal illness. It was as though my life had suddenly ended. People tried to be supportive by saying things like, ‘you can still do this’ or ‘you can still do that.’ The general consensus was that I had been maimed. That I had been irreparably damaged.

            “Only I don’t feel damaged. Everyone was telling me that I should be pitied, but I didn’t feel like there was anything all that wrong with me. They were telling me that I should feel like my life had ended, but that seemed terribly wrong. I didn’t feel maimed—I felt annoyed. I felt annoyed that I couldn’t apparate from London to my childhood home. I felt annoyed that I needed a friend to find my own warded flat. I felt annoyed that I needed to walk across a room to pick something up instead of saying a single word and have it fly into my hand. At no point did I feel like saying to myself, my whole life is over. Because it wasn’t. I was inconvenienced, and nothing more.

            “So I realized, people were simply projecting onto me their worries for themselves. Witches and wizards are born with magic. It’s so entirely a part of them that they fear they’d no longer be themselves if it were taken away. They pity those who don’t have magic, even though we are in the vast majority of human beings. They pity Muggles—but they fear Squibs. Because Squibs are their mothers and sons and cousins, and they look at us, and they see themselves. They take in this message that society has placed on them and perpetuate it: these people are lesser, and it could have been you. So of course they react with disdain. Of course they react with fear. They see us, and they are so very relieved to not be us.

            “Only now there’s me. And there is someone out there—maybe more than one—who knows how to turn someone with magic into a Squib. Possibly for the first time, we are illuminating the truth about how magic users perceive and treat Squibs, and how it has been desperately unfair. People with magic have always been secure in the fact that no matter their circumstances, they’ll always have magic, and that makes them better than others. Now we know—that isn’t the case. These notions of superiority—for the first time, people understand how very fragile and misguided that is. So of course they’re frightened. To face a belief you’ve held your entire life, and to discover that it’s wrong—that magic is a privilege, and not a right—is terrifying to some.

            “As a former wizard, and current Squib, I would like to tell the magical population that your fears are misplaced. Losing my magic has not made me any less myself. Before this, I could not have imagined life without magic. Now I realize how arrogant that was. I was a good liberal, made my donations to the cause, wore my Squib Rights pin, but I never really considered what it was to live like this. The truth is, living as a Squib is living a normal life. I write, I go for walks, I see my family, I have pints with friends. I live my life. I simply do so without that added level of convenience.

            “And yet. I am pitied by an entire population. I am told my ‘condition’ is a source of fear for the whole of magical Britain. Everywhere I go, people think I should be overwrought with despair because I’m now a lesser part of the community I was born into. And that’s ridiculous.

            “I’m a normal person, with a normal life, and I’ve spent my entire life in this community. But I’m considered less than human in the eyes of the Ministry that my mother once led, in the government that demands my taxes without offering me proper representation. There are seven anti-Squib bills waiting for Wizengamot approval at this very moment. If they pass, I could be denied magical housing. I could be denied long term care at St. Mungo’s. I would need special permission to even _enter_ the Ministry that my family has been an integral part of. I challenge anyone in front of me right now, anyone reading about this later, to come to me and say to my face that any of that’s right. Tell me I should be exiled from the community I was born and raised into.

            “Of course, the truly insidious part is that people wouldn’t say that to me. They’d say, of course not, Hugo. Of course you’re all right. You were a wizard. It’s different than other Squibs. You know what I have to say to that?” Hugo shakes his head. “Get stuffed.”

            There’s applause, and some whistles, but mostly everyone is just watching him. They’re entranced, as well they should be.

            “I am not going to live the rest of my life acting as if I am less a member of the magical community. I am not going to spend the rest of my life allowing the myth that Squibs aren’t part of this society. I refuse to let the world continue to behave as though we are something to be feared, to be condescended to, to be pitied. I believe that this community can come together. That we can rid ourselves of this shameful, misguided attitude of the past that says we are not welcome. Whoever did this to me wants you to be afraid. I don’t have the patience to be afraid. I don’t have the patience to give this person what he wants. If anything good can come from what happened to me, I will do everything in my power to achieve it. I will be damned if _my_ government tells me that I am not worthy of inclusion, and I will do everything I possibly can to make sure that you’re all a part of this world.”

            He pauses to let everyone applaud. Hugo looks over the crowd, then says, “To that end, I believe that there is no way to accomplish these goals without reaching out across the aisle. We need the people who think less of us to understand that we are their family, their friends, their coworkers. We need to change minds, or we’ll get nowhere. So—I would like to call to the stage my sister, Rose Granger-Weasley.”

            A silence falls. I get the sudden urge to shit myself.

            Rose walks out in business casual robes, clutching a piece of paper in hand. She looks anxious. As well she bloody should! I look at Scorpius. He’s staring at her, unblinking.

            The crowd starts to revolt. Some boo, and there are a few screams of, “Squib hater!”

            Before they get too far, Hugo says authoritatively, “If I’ve engendered any good will from you, you’ll keep your mouths shut and listen to what she has to say!” Hugo holds an arm out to Rose. “Come here, Rosie.” Rose walks to the top of the stage, and Hugo passes the microphone to her. She looks at it doubtfully, but nods. Hugo takes a step back, but stays protectively at her side.

            What in the hell is going on? He said they weren’t even speaking.

            Rose looks out at the crowd, then says, “Good afternoon. I’m Rose Granger-Weasley, Junior Minister for the Department of Magical Education.”

            Near us, someone says, “We know, you fucking fascist.” Scorpius turns to glare at him, and I feel a jealous flare.”

            Rose glances down at the paper in her hand. She’s having a hard time maintaining eye contact. Good. She’s not safe here. She has no right to be here.

            “I understand that very few people present are fond of me. I also understand that I have done very little to gain your affection. Or your respect.” She swallows, looking again at her paper. What is going on? “For the past several months, I have been trying to bring forth a bill that would effectively bar all—people without magical abilities from attending Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

            It’s starting to feel hostile, all around us. I look for aurors. There are definitely some present.

            “I did so…saying that I meant it in good faith. That doing so would mean creating clear guidelines on how to educate the non-magical members of our community. This was…incorrect. I wrote the bill not in an effort to appeal to the better natures of witches and wizards, but to capitalize on a divisive issue. I am a politician, and one aspect of the business that is clear but rarely spoken upon by those who practice it is that it’s far easier to move people through fear than kindness. They’re faster to support you if you tell them there is a threat, or to appeal to beliefs that speak to some base fear they possess. I am a young woman trying to make a name for myself—when everyone already knows my name, and associates it with people other than myself. And so I made a very poor decision. I chose to take power from an already marginalized group in order to gain power. It was a shameful thing to do. I owe all of you an apology. And so I apologize, to each and every one of you. For making your lives more difficult. For attempting to make the lives of your children a little more unbearable.”

            Rose consults her paper again, and says, “I am embarrassed to admit that I would not be in this position unless my brother had been attacked. My brother and I have not always seen eye to eye on things. But I love him, dearly. I had never considered what it would be like to have a family member who was a—a—”

            “Squib!” someone shouts.

            Startled, Rose takes a moment, then says hesitantly, “Squib. It seemed like something that wouldn’t happen to someone I cared about. And when it did, all I could think about was how awful it was for him. How he was at a disadvantage. Only Hugo didn’t see it that way. He chose to face the world on his own terms, the same as he always had. I thought that he would be angry about what happened to him. And he was, but more than that, he was angry at me. He was angry that I had done things to make the world think that he wasn’t worthy of—of being part of things. Of being part of our magical world. I was quite taken aback. He asked me if I thought he shouldn’t have gone to Hogwarts, had he been born this way. I said of course he should have gone, and he told me that if the only reason I believed that was because he was my brother, that I should take a hard look at myself. He told me I should look at the world I’ve worked so tirelessly to create.

            “So I did, and I was horrified by what I saw. I saw that I had behaved selfishly. Even cruelly. For so long, I thought people were angry with me because they simply didn’t understand what I was trying to achieve. The truth was, _I_ didn’t realize what I was trying to achieve. Once I looked at it with eyes unblinkered, I realized that I needed to make a change. I needed to undo the damage that I had created. Not only to my brother, to the future that he deserves—but to all of you. I have lobbied the Ministry to have the bill for Magical Admissions Guidelines to be retracted. I have made every appeal that I can think of, I have pulled every favour I have ever accumulated, but there are still those at the Ministry who believe that we need to create a society of second class citizens. I have been unable to retract the bill. There is…however, there is one final way to put this terrible piece of legislation to rest, once and for all. Legislation can only be presented to the Wizengamot if it has been written by a current member of the Ministry.”

            Rose swallows, putting back her shoulders, then says in a rush, “Therefore, I am publicly announcing my resignation from the Ministry for Magic, effective immediately.”

            I breathe, “Fucking hell,” as the crowd loses its collective mind.

            Rose is trying to still say something above them, but everyone is cheering so loudly, screaming so loudly, that she can’t be heard. She steps back, looking like she might be ill. Hugo wraps his arms around her, swaying her from side to side.

            An ear splitting whistle issues from beside me. Scorpius pulls his fingers from his mouth and claps as loudly as he can. He looks so proud.

            I’m still flabbergasted. I’ve been clapping along with the rest, but it’s been perfunctory. This is a good moment, regardless of how thrown I am. So I say, “Well done, Rose,” and add my hands to the applause.

 

Tim is the one who gets us past the aurors, of course. Scorpius is right behind him, saying over his shoulder to me, “Did you know she was going to do that?” He turns back around before I can even reply.

            When we get backstage, Rose is being hugged fiercely by my aunt and uncle. Hugo’s looking on, beaming. I can’t remember the last time I saw them all together, looking like a family.

            “First Squib Minister of Magic!” Tim hollers. “Mark my words!”

            Hugo bounds over to us, grinning. “Wasn’t it grand?” he says, throwing his arms around me.

            I pat him on the back, too confused to say anything, as Tim replies, “I think the reporter from the _Prophet_ exploded.”

            Hugo hugs Scorpius next, saying, “Wasn’t she great? I couldn’t tell you, I just wanted to see the looks on your faces!”

            “We were surprised, all right,” Scorpius says. “You were brilliant up there. Tim’s right. Fifteen years, you’ll be running the Ministry.”

            Hugo pulls a face. “Not bloody likely. Politics is a little too rough and tumble for me. I’d rather battle ghouls in a cavern.”

            Tim ruffles his hair. “How do you plan on doing that, Squib?”

            “However I bloody can, you prick,” Hugo retorts, jabbing Tim in the side.

            Scorpius looks past Hugo and a smile lights his face. “Hey.”

            I look over as Rose joins Hugo’s side. She smiles back tentatively. “Hi.”

            I don’t like the way they’re looking at one another. After a moment’s pause, Scorpius asks, “Make any major life choices lately?”

            Rose laughs, pushing her hair back. “You know us Granger-Weasleys. Don’t bother at all if you can’t make a scene.”

            I press my lips together, watching the way Scorpius looks at Rose. “That was really great,” Scorpius says. “The both of you.”

            Hugo slings an arm around Rose. “Who would have thought we’d make an excellent team?” Rose runs a hand over her face, letting out a groan. “Oh, cheer up, Rose. The world’s our oyster.”

            “You’re all right, though,” Scorpius says with some concern. “You’re okay.”

            “Yes,” Rose is quick to say. “Yes, of course.” She glances back at Hugo, then says to Scorpius, “We’re all having dinner at the Burrow after this. Escape the madness. Would you join us?”

            Cringing, Scorpius says, “I would, but—” He finally glances at me. There it is. The look on his face, like he completely forgot I was here. Scorpius pauses, then turns back to Rose. “Etienne and Edwige are in town, and I’ve already cancelled plans with them once. I should probably be going, to tell the truth.”

            Rose blinks, obviously disappointed. “Well—hello to them from me.”

            “I’ll pass it along.” Scorpius steps back. “I’m going to—” He thumbs over his shoulder.

            “Thanks for coming out, mate,” Hugo says. “Really glad to have you all here. Start of a new chapter, isn’t it?”

            “Cheers. Enjoy dinner, everyone. Tim, behave.”

            “Get fucked,” Tim replies.

            Scorpius turns away, giving me one last glance. I look away, unimpressed.

            I think the people who are left realize I’ve yet to say anything. So that probably means I should. I’ve very little to say to the one who’s had a sudden change of heart about persecuting the marginalized.

            The woman who obviously wants my boyfriend back.

            “Well done,” I say. “Good to see the family in the news for something positive.” I can’t look at Rose. This doesn’t erase anything. “I’m going to find Mum. I’ll see you lot for dinner.”       

            Before I can leave, Hugo asks, “Can’t we all be friends again?” He gives me pleading eyes. “She’s seen the error of her ways.”

            “Hugo,” Rose murmurs.

            “I’ll see you for dinner,” I repeat, and go looking for my mother.

 

Dinner is as loud as I hoped it would be. There’s close to two dozen Weasleys and Weasley-adjacents gathered in the backyard at the table. They talk over one another, argue with one another, defend another, often in a single sentence.

            Granddad looks thrilled. He’s seated at the head of the table, cleaned up. Uncle George has bought him a new outfit. Uncle Percy is bouncing his granddaughter on his knee, and Granddad pulls out his teeth to chatter them at her. Millie stares at them a moment, then howls in the uninhibited way only a baby can, smashing her gummy little hands together.

            Hugo has been placed in the middle of the table, with Rose beside him, as everyone wants a piece of them. Hugo is basking in the praise, and I don’t blame him. He’s always been a terrible whore for attention, but he usually deserves it.

            Rose looks a little less excited. She’s wan. She answers questions with a smile, but then goes back to picking at her food. Typical Rose. Does the right thing and then questions whether she should have done it at all.

            I have another bite of brussel sprouts. No one ever remembers to cook a vegetarian option, so I just eat the side dishes. That’s fine. Aunt Fleur’s brussel sprouts are a thing of legend.

            I glance across the table. Somehow Lily and I were planted across from one another. She’s ignored me the entire time, focusing on her plate.

            Mum catches my eye. I shrug. She nods to Lily with an inquisitive look. I give her an eye roll, trying to convey, _if it’s not one thing, it’s another_.

            Teddy’s trying to talk Quidditch with James. For the first time in his life, James is saying, “I haven’t really been keeping up.”

            “What? You? Tell me another one, mate.”

            James sighs, looking embarrassed and miserable.

            Dad’s seated next to me. We haven’t said anything to one another. I think the best thing is to just not acknowledge one another.

            “How about it, Hugo?” says Uncle Charlie. “Running for Minister one day?”

            “Why does everyone keep saying that to me?” Hugo replies, exasperated.

            “Because you just gave a speech worthy of a Minister,” says Aunt Hermione. She smiles at Hugo, affectionate.

            Hugo shivers, saying, “No, no, no. I want to get back to travelling.”

            “Hugo, it’s only been a month—”

            “Eventually, Mum. There’s plenty to be done here right now. People want to be reactionary, so might as well push them in the right direction. And _I_ don’t want to be Minister one day, but another Squib might.”

            Uncle George groans, “I’ll cut my throat if that little McTavish prick runs the world.”

            “Well, if he’d like to, I want there to at least be the chance. Rose was telling me there’s some rumbling about trying to officially restrict Squibs from Ministry positions.”

            Aunt Hermione actually drops her fork. “There is not,” she says, stricken.

            Everyone looks to Rose. She clears her throat, then nods. “I have heard it in more than a few places. But I think—that with a voice like Hugo’s, we could sway the court of public opinion. The Ministry wouldn’t think of passing legislation like that if Hugo was the voice of the opposition.”

            Hugo smiles at her. I’m irritated by Rose’s turnabout, but I have to admit, I’m also jealous that he gets to have a good relationship with her again.

            “What’s next for you, Rosie?” asks Uncle Bill.

            “I…don’t rightly know. In all honesty, I didn’t allow myself to think ahead too far. But it was a decision that had to be made, so…I made it.”

            He raises a glass. “Good for you.”

            Raising her shoulders, Rose says, “I’ve spent the past few years being so obsessed with work that…it might be time to look at my personal life. Fix some mistakes.” She glances at her brother with a hesitant smile. “Help Hugo. If he’ll let me.”

            Hugo nods emphatically. “Yes. We’ll raze the Ministry. We’ll lead the revolution!”

            “Legally, please,” Aunt Hermione sighs.

            “Sure Mum,” Hugo says, giving exaggerated winks to the table. “Perfectly above board, Mum.”

            Everyone laughs, and Uncle Ron says loudly, “I want to propose a toast.” He stands up.

            Hugo and Rose groan, “ _Dad_.”

            Uncle Ron lifts his glass, chest puffed out. “I want to propose a toast to my two ungrateful children. You don’t appreciate my puns, you’ve terrorized your mother and I, and neither of you seem set on giving us grandchildren to spoil. And I’m so proud of you I could burst. You’re Weasleys through and through.”

            Everyone raises their glass and cheers. “Weasleys through and through!”

            I have a sip of my water, and continue eating. Everyone settles back down, an uncommon quiet falling over the table.

            Mum looks over everyone with a smile. “Anyone else with news to share? Not to draw attention from my brilliant niece and nephew, of course, but I think Rose is sick of us asking questions.”

            “I am,” Rose says gratefully.

            “Albus has news,” Lily says.

            We all look at her.

            “No I don’t,” I say.

            Lily continues chewing. “Of course you do.” I shake my head, feeling a pit forming in my stomach. Lily looks up at everyone, as if she’s discussing the weather. “He’s dating Scorpius Malfoy.”

            The air is sucked out of the room. It’s like every single member of my family forgets to breathe.

            I stare at Lily, refusing to react. Refusing to give her this. “I’m not.”

                   She shrugs. “I came by your house the other day. Unless you’re only friends with benefits and that’s why he had his tongue in your mouth, I’d say you’re dating.”

            They’re all looking at me now. I can feel Dad beside me, staring.

            Inhaling, I reach out for my water glass. Hugo says eagerly, “Are you?” I glance down the table at him. He looks shocked and delighted.

            Rose—well, Rose looks like I’ve destroyed her world.

            Lily’s face is starting to get a bit smug, and that’s what does me in. Picking up my glass, I say evenly, “Sorry to disappoint, everyone. I wouldn’t take Lily at her word. After all, I caught her drinking last week.”

            Lily sucks in a breath. The smirk disappears from her face.

            “No,” Mum says. She gazes at Lily, heartbroken. “You weren’t.”

            Lily looks side to side, panicking. “No! I didn’t, he’s lying—”

            I say, “She’s probably high right now—”

            Lily grabs her glass and throws it at my head.

            Nearly a dozen witches and wizards react all at once. Some try to _accio_ it, others try freezing it in place, others to vanish it. What happens is that it explodes under the stress, and I see a very fast blur.

            A moment later, I feel a tingle on my forehead. It’s quite cold.

            Mum shoves herself to her feet. “Albus—”

            Lily’s half out of her chair, gaping at me. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—”

            I reach up, touching the blood trickling from my forehead. I look from my hand to Lily.

            In seconds, her face goes from apologetic to angry. “You ruin everything!” She turns and jogs off.

            I push myself back from the table, shooting upwards. Dad tries to grab me, but I throw off his hands. “Don’t touch me.” I take off after Lily, keeping one hand to my forehead to stop the blood.

            She’s walking quickly past the Burrow, towards the front lane. I see her clenching and unclenching her fists, trying to shake out her hands. She’s saying to herself, “You can do it, just apparate, just do it—”

            “Too high to apparate?” I yell after her.

            Lily shouts back, “Get the fuck away from me!”

            “Get back here and apologize to me!”

            Lily spins around, making fists. “Apologize to you?! After what you just did?”

            I pull my hand down and advance on her, bloody palm forward. “What’s this? What the hell is this, Lily?”

            “It was an accident! You provoked me!”

            “You selfish cow, can you not just _apologize_ —”

            “Kids!” Mum is running after us, Dad on her heels. “Kids, that’s enough—”

            Yanking out my wand, I slash it through the air. “ _Clupeus_!” An anti apparition dome comes down over us, keeping our parents from coming in, and keeping Lily from just vanishing on me. For good measure, I add, “ _Muffliato_!”

            When I turn back, Lily has her hand out. “Don’t! Don’t trap me in here with _you_ —”

            “Apologize to me!”

            “For _what_?”

            “For trying to embarrass me! For telling a secret that wasn’t yours to tell! For fucking lacerating me, and that’s just for starters!”

            “I should apologize for embarrassing _you_?! What do you think you just did to me?”

            “Do you hear yourself right now, Lily? You _were_ drunk, you _were_ drinking, and you’re acting like you did nothing wrong—”

            “I wasn’t!” Lily insists, stamping her foot. “I didn’t drink, I was just going to hold it in my hand—”

            “No you weren’t! You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me! You were going to do anything he wanted, and then you wouldn’t be able to stop, can you not understand that?”

            “Where is he?!” Lily shouts. I turn away, shaking my head. “Where is Sian? What did you do to him?”

            “No less than he deserved for what he threatened to do to you.”

            “You’re lying, he was going to help me!”

            “Yeah, help you by pumping you for all your secrets and then abandoning you in an alley when he’d finished with you. You can’t be this stupid!”

            “What do you care? I needed help and you wouldn’t help me!”

            “Because you asked for money because you’re going to get high!”

            “I need money to pay my bills! I’m going to lose my flat!”

            I have to put my wand away, realizing that if I don’t, I’m going to hex the tits off my own sister. “You have to know how out of line you are right now. You can’t be so lacking in self awareness.”

            “I need to find him, I need money—”

            “Get—a fucking—JOB!”

            “No one believes in me! No one believes I can succeed with my designs, but I will—”

            “No one believes you can succeed because you won’t! You’re not willing to apologize for what you’ve done, you’re not willing to put in the work, you think the whole world is yours and that it should all just be handed to you! You’re going to die, thinking like that!”

            “What would you know? Everything’s always come so easy to you!”

            I freeze in disbelief. “ _What_?”

            “You go on and on about how I had everything just given to me, like I had some sort of advantage over you! You go on and on about poor you, how I had things better, but they were exactly the same! You want to talk about entitled, look in a mirror!”

            “You can’t honestly think that—”

            “How were we any different? Tell me one way ever that I had it better than you!”

            “You’re white.”

            “Then what are you?”

            My eyes might fall out of my head. “Excuse me?”

            “You’re just as white as I am, and I’m just as Indian as you are!”

            Flabbergasted, I put up both hands. “Oh my God. All this time I thought you were high. You’re actually just an _idiot_.”

            “Do you really think you could pull that card on me? You look like you have a tan, so oh, you’re so bloody oppressed? No one’s ever treated you any differently!”

            “How many holes have you put in your brain? You cannot be so stupid as to believe that you and I haven’t had different experiences in the world because of the colour of our skin.”

            “We haven’t!” Lily shouts.

            “Fuck right off,” I say, reaching for my wand. “You are a lost cause. You’re a stupid little girl who’ll never be anything more than that, because you cannot fathom a world in which anyone exists but yourself.”

            “What did I do to you? What is it you think that I _did_ to you?”

            I shout, “I almost lost the house!” My voice is so loud that Lily startles backwards. I’m holding my wand so tightly that I might snap it if I’m not careful. “You took _everything_ , Lily! You broke in and stole every single cent I had, you took _all_ my money. You tore up my floorboards and took all that I had. I almost lost my house, Lily. I had to go to Sian—I had to do things that ruined other people’s lives so that I wouldn’t lose my house.” I shake my head at her, trying to see the little girl who used to run around the garden. Voice breaking, I say, “You almost killed my cat.”

            For a moment, there’s a fear in Lily’s eyes. “No, no, that’s…”

            “Do you even remember? She tried to stop you, she clawed your face, and when I came home she was barely alive. You broke her ribs—”

            “No.”

            “You fractured her—”

            “No!” Lily shouts. “I didn’t do that! I wouldn’t do that, I would never—I’m not like that.”

            “Yes you are.”

            Lily looks like she’s about to be sick. Screwing up her face, she cries out, “Just tell me where he is! Tell me where he is or I’ll tell everyone you did something to him—”

            “Fine!” I whip my arm through the air, bringing down the dome. I jab my wand at Mum and Dad. “Tell them.” Lily just stares at them, scared, and I lose my patience. “TELL THEM!”

            Lily gasps, then disapparates.

            A moment later, Mum’s hands are on my face. “Sweetheart, let me see.”

            I feel a bit dizzy. “It wasn’t Lily clipped me so much as a family effort. Mum, stop, you’ll get it on your hands.”

            “I changed diapers,” she retorts. “I’m not afraid of a little blood.”

 

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Hugo practically pounces.

            “You sneak!” he yelps. I cry out, surprised, and he laughs. “How long has this been going on? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

            “There’s nothing to tell. Lily doesn’t have the sense Merlin gave her.”

            “Albus. Come on.” Hugo slaps my arm. “Dream the impossible dream, eh?”

            I step away. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

            “We need to get together,” Hugo calls after me.

            I barely get a few foot before walking into Rose.

            She has her arms around herself, looking up at me. I don’t say anything. Rose asks, voice trembling, “Is it true?”

            If it had been a month ago, or a few months ago, I would thought of this moment and all the hurtful, triumphant things I could say. Now that I’m here, though—

            I don’t say anything at all. I step around her and leave the Burrow.

 

A man sits in my bedroom.

            I watch him from my bed. I can’t make out his face, or any of his features. I can only see the outline of him, broad and big, slope shouldered.

            “You promised.” His voice is flat, gravelly. I know he’s speaking to me from beyond the grave. “I asked you for help. You promised.”

            “I’m no one,” I tell him.

            The man rises from his seat. “Where am I?”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Where am I in your world?”

            “Nowhere.”

            He screams at me, “Who knows my name?!”

            I wake up, gasping at my chest. Oh—that wasn’t great.

            Zamora mewls, crawling up my body. I reach down for her. “Yes. Come up here, please.” I stroke her head, trying to catch my breath.

            The nightmares haven’t gone away. Having the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement looking into it hasn’t appeased my ghosts. Instead I get Eric Golightly howling at me in my sleep.

            And I don’t blame him. Not really.

            Not that there is a him. I don’t think Golightly is actually haunting me. I think it’s my own guilt and trauma and whatever the hell else causes nightmares. Next will probably be Sian. Christ, I know it’s coming. I don’t even want to think about it.

            Zamora meows right into my mouth, and I snort. “My sweet girl.” I lean forward, kissing her forehead. I look at her eyes, reflecting even in the dark. “I’m so happy you’re still here with me.” She starts to purr, vibrating my whole body.

            I remember the day I came home and found her…hurt. Not knowing if it would be better to put her out of her misery or get help. I couldn’t do the former. Not to her, my constant, most loyal companion. Zamora loves me without conditions, and the idea of life without her—I couldn’t stand it.

            Lily. Fucking Lily. Showing up at the house she stole from, asking for money. Telling me that I’m fucking white. Is she blind?

            I don’t give a shit if we’re technically of the same genetic background. She’s a white woman, with all the privileges that entails. I’m a brown man, with all the disadvantages that entails. She must have brain damage to think otherwise.

            She was so out of line. Telling everyone. Now the whole family hates me. They probably think I stole Scorpius from Rose. That I’m just some curiosity rebound for him.

            Which maybe I am, I don’t know.

            Like I conjured him just by thinking of him, there’s a tap at my window. Scorpius gives me a sheepish wave. Feeling the tension leaving my body, I reach for my wand. I release the anti-apparition ward for a second, and he pops inside.

            “There’s my two favourite people,” Scorpius says as Zamora trots to the end of the bed. He picks her up, smooching her face.

            “I knew I had to keep you when you called her a person.”

            Cuddling her, Scorpius says, “So—I got a very interesting owl from Hugo.”

            Letting my arms fall to my side, I groan. “What a tremendous clusterfuck.”

            “What happened? I leave your side for a few hours and suddenly Hugo is sending me a double entendre laced missive.” He sets Zamora down and climbs onto the bed with me. “He knows a million more than I do, and the man’s not even interested in sex.”

            “Hugo just has to be better than us at everything.”

            “The bastard,” Scorpius agrees. “So? What’s happened?”

            “Lily decided she’d drop a bomb to embarrass me. It didn’t go well for Lily.”

            “Uh oh.”

             “Do you think I’m white?”

            Scorpius blinks at me, propping up his head. “I beg your pardon?”

            “Lily says I’m as white as she is. That we’re both technically only a quarter Indian so either we’re both brown or we’re both white.”

            Scorpius reaches over, putting a hand to my face. “That,” he says lovingly, “is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” I let out a laugh of relief. He jostles me. “Look at my skin on your skin. _I_ am white. I’m pale as the driven snow. You have the most beautiful brown skin. Genetics are important, but your experience has been worlds away from Lily’s. And love—she was probably high when she said that. Yeah?” I nod, feeling better. Hating myself a little that I want a white man to reassure me of my perceptions of my own race, but here we are. I just need the reassurance of someone I love. And that’s him. Scorpius smiles, then gives me a kiss before lying down. “Who’s speaking to one another now?”

            “I don’t bloody know.” I roll over, draping myself over him.

            “Aw,” Scorpius laughs. “Did someone have a bad day?”

            “Wretched.”

            “Can I make it better?”

            “Do you have a Time Turner?”

            “We’re not doing _that_ again. So…does this mean we’re public now?”

            “No. I don’t imagine it does. My family knows, but…they’d never tell anyone outside.”

            “Do you think…maybe it’s time we did, though?”

            The way he looked at Rose this afternoon. The way she smiled when she told everyone she wanted to fix past mistakes.

            “No,” I murmur. I curl closer to him and close my eyes. “I’d like to keep you to myself. Just a little while longer.”


	16. Chapter 16

I don’t know what’s been up with Suzette these past few days, but it’s starting to concern me.

            Every time I come into the office, she’s not waiting to pounce on every minor detail about my existence. When I go for lunch, she doesn’t pop out to ask me why I’m not showing more initiative. And when I leave for the day? No critiques about my wardrobe. It’s all highly suspicious.

            I walk towards her office, report in hand, waiting for her to look up at me with some condescending smirk. Only she has her face in the paper, and whatever she’s reading is making her jowls pop.

            On second thought. I swerve away from my path, going to Nadine instead. Setting the report on top of her desk, I say, “Nadine.” Her violet eyes flick up over her glasses. “I need to get this to—” Don’t say  ‘our lord and master.’ Don’t be sarcastic. “Suzette, only she looks engaged at the moment. Would you be so kind as to pass it on once she looks free?”

            Nadine gazes at me without blinking.

            “Might I also add, you are looking _lovely_ today.”

            After another moment, Nadine opens one of her drawers. She pulls out a crystal goblet filled to the top with hard candies. “Have a sweet.”

            Eyebrows raised, I select a green one. “Thank you very much. You know—one day I aspire to fill our coworkers with the same fear you do with your overcompetence.”

            Her non-existent lips almost turn up. I smile back, then decide to make it an early lunch.

 

No Scorpius today. He has meetings. So I don’t have to pretend to be a good adult.

            “Just cake?” says the till witch.

            “Every time I see you you’re trying to sell that poisonous brew masquerading as coffee. You’re in no position to judge _me_ for my eating habits.” Scowling, she rings me up. I look down at my tray, with its single piece of cake on it, then roll my eyes. I lean past the person behind me in line, snatching up a vegetable cup. “Fine.”

            The till witch smugly takes my money, and I carry off my tray. It’s busier than usual for this time of day. I completely forgot about the conference. There’s healers from all over the continent in town to discuss a vaccination for spattergroit. Grimacing, I briefly consider trying to join a table, but if I did that I’d have to put up with a constant round of _aren’t you Harry Potter’s son_?

            No. Better to eat in my office and get back to work. Be extra efficient just to really stick it to Suzette. Make Esmerline proud.

            I take a few steps and almost run directly into Rebecca. “Merlin’s sack—why are you just standing there?”

            I pause upon looking at her. She looks terrible. At this point, there’s no telling the last time she had a shower, because her hair practically glows from all the cleaning spells she’s shot at it. Her face is thin and pinched, purple circles around her eyes.

            I think that she’s going to apologize. Instead, Rebecca says, “May I speak with you?”

            “About what?”

            “About something…I need to tell someone.”

            Perplexed, I say, “There’s plenty other people here than me.”

            She closes her eyes briefly, then says tiredly, “I need to tell _you_. Could you—could you spare a few minutes?”

            I really couldn’t. This has ‘I need a good samaritan’ written all over it, and I’ve learned what being a good samaritan does to a person. It’s all nightmares and regret.

            What would Scorpius do?

            Fuck. Fucking perfect spectre hanging over my shoulder, forcing me to be a better person.

            “All right,” I say begrudgingly.

            Rebecca turns around. “Come with me.”

            Oh, now we have to leave? Bollocks. I set down my tray on a table full of people, picking up the cake and vegetables, and follow Rebecca across the room and out the door.

            She says nothing, and I don’t press, feeling a pit developing in my stomach. She guides us to the stairwell, and walks us down to the fourth floor. I don’t have to ask. I know where we’re going, even though I’ve never been there. Never wanted to be there.

            Rebecca takes the first right off the stairwell, and walks right to the double doors beneath a large sign. Ward 49. The Janus Thickey Ward. Drawing her wand—a short, slender thing, likely ash—Rebecca says, “ _Alohomora_ ,” and the doors open for us. She waits for me to reluctantly join her, then points her wand at the doors again. “ _Colloportus_.”

            I don’t want to be here. What if—what if Sian’s here?

            Rebecca continues walking, so I swallow and go after her. I hear strange noises. Growls, a tapping that follows no discernible rhythm. A voice whispering desperately. I make myself small as possible and keep my head down as we walk down the aisle of curtained beds.

            Second to last on the left, Rebecca opens the curtain enough for me to step inside. I do, feeling some measure of relief once I’m blocked off from everyone else, even slightly.

            “Albus,” Rebecca says, stepping around me, “this is Richie.”

            There is a striking family resemblance. The boy lying on the bed before me has the same dark curls as his sister, the same bone structure. He’s not that much larger than her. I can see his chest rise and fall. His face has colour. If I didn’t know he was ill, I’d think he was only sleeping. To be frank, he’s in better shape than Rebecca.

            Rebecca conjures a chair for me beside the bed, then sits in an overstuffed quilt chair right next to Richie’s head. This is where she always is. This is where she never leaves. Uncomfortable, I set my food down on the floor. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I don’t like it.

            Reaching out, Rebecca takes her brother’s hand. She rubs her thumbs over his skin, eyes unfocused.

            “I lied to you,” she says softly.

            “When?”

            “That first time we—no. No, the second time we spoke. It’s all starting to blur together, you know. I’ve been here with him so long now. Over six months. And I’m so tired. That day…upstairs. I told you about Richie. Only I lied to you. I told you he was a good boy.” Rebecca grazes her lips over Richie’s knuckles. “But he’s not.”

            I don’t know why I need to be here for this. I must be the only person in the hospital who she’s spoken to. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be the person others confess to.

            “I’ve told…a lot of lies about Richie over the years. Only I told myself they weren’t lies. I said I was protecting him. That other people didn’t understand. Or that he’d grow out of it. Teenage boys, they’re…difficult. And a boy like Richie—a smart boy, a curious boy—he’d be more difficult than the rest. Not having a mum and dad, that had to be a part of it. I told myself that it wasn’t his fault. That it was my fault for not being—better? And because it was my fault, I needed to protect him. I don’t know whose fault it is anymore. But it will be mine if I don’t…if I don’t say something.”

            Rebecca closes her eyes. “I told you that he left Hogwarts because it was holding him back. That’s the story. The truth is…they asked him to leave. I mean—they _asked_ , but they were telling us. He’s so clever. He’s so clever it’s scary, you know? I was proud to have such a clever little brother, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t always stop to think about whether he should do something. If he can do it, he’ll do it, whether someone else thinks he should or not. And after, even if someone else is upset—he’s not sorry for it. If he thinks he learned something, he thinks that means it’s justified. I can’t tell you how sick I was of hearing ‘the end justifies the means.’ I thought that he’d be all right at Hogwarts. They’re the best teachers in the world, the smartest people in the world. If someone could take that—curiosity, that need to learn things— _create_ things—and make it something good, it would be them. Only it wasn’t. Not after…not after what he did to the animals. He had to come home after that.

            “I love him so much. He’s my little brother. And he has his bright spots, he really does. If he picks something he cares about, then he _cares_. If he believes in something, he believes in it all the way, you know? And he could be good to me. He came up with this spell to make the roses bloom all year long. So I could put them in my flower crowns. They looked better than anyone else’s. He did that for me. He’d do things like that, and I’d think, he is a good boy. If he was bad, he wouldn’t put all that time in.

            “But I couldn’t control him. I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t really try. Whenever I did, he would make me feel…so very small. So very stupid. He was out in the shed creating spells, making spells at _fifteen_ , and what was I doing? Braiding flowers together. He wanted to know how I thought I’d make him do anything. And he was right. I couldn’t. So he…did what he pleased, and I told myself these lies, and that’s just sort of how we lived.”

            Rebecca shakes her head, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

            “Do—you think this is a spell he made? That he did this accidentally to himself?”

            “I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s not that. It’s what he did before—that I’m trying to tell you. I need to tell you or it will kill me. I can’t live with this on my conscience anymore, even knowing…even knowing what they might do to him if he ever wakes up.”

            “What…did he do?”

            Rebecca exhales, and sits back in her chair. “A little less than a year ago now…he started telling me that not everyone who had it deserved magic. That most people were too stupid for it. He said that the fewer people had it, the rest might appreciate it more.”

            I turn my head to stare at her.

            Watching Richie while she speaks, Rebecca says, “I didn’t…pay too much mind. Richie says things sometimes that…sound impossible. That sound like the kind of thing a teenage boy might say when he doesn’t have many friends, when he’s a bit angry at the world. He said something like it to me a few times, then he stopped talking about it. That should have…I should have paid attention to that. When Richie believes something, he _believes_ it, and he follows it to the end. He doesn’t just lose interest. Only I was so relieved he wasn’t talking about it that I didn’t push. I let myself believe that he’d let it go.

            “Then he met someone.”

            Rebecca swallows. “I don’t know who it is. Richie started going out nights, or I’d look for him in the middle of the day and he wouldn’t be there. That’s not like him. I asked him what he was doing, where he was going, and he told me it was none of my business. This went on for weeks. I’d wait up, try and see if anyone was walking him home, but he’d taught himself to apparate. I only ever caught sight of them once, at the end of the lane. There were two of them. That’s all I can tell you about what they looked like because—it’s like their faces were blurry. Like they were there but not there. I’d never seen anything like it, even with all the strange things Richie cooked up. I couldn’t even tell you if they were women or men. Useless. Even now, I’m useless.

            “We got in a terrible row after that. I wanted him to tell me who they were, and he just laughed at me. I tried to…tried to act like a parent, and it didn’t go well. He lost it. Ended up telling me that I was too stupid for magic, and that one day I might lose it if I wasn’t careful. I asked him what that meant, and he just smiled at me. No. No, he smirked. Like he knew something I didn’t. I’d seen that look on his face before, but not like that. It scared me. _He_ scared me.

            “We avoided one another for a few days after that. One night he went out and I didn’t say anything, I just let him go. A few hours went by, and I fell asleep. Then something woke me up. I could hear all this banging around, and I saw a light out in the shed. So I went out there, and he was— _burning_ everything. All his papers, all his books, he was destroying things one after another, and he looked terrified. I’d never seen him like that, even when he was a little boy. He was out of his mind. I made him stop, and I asked him what had happened, and—he started crying. He put his head on my shoulder and cried like a baby.”

            Rebecca doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

            “I held onto him a long time. Eventually, he started to tell me what happened, but not everything. He said he’d figured out how to take someone’s magic away. Or he’d thought he’d figured it out. He had met some people—he wouldn’t say where, he wouldn’t say who, but he’d met these people who wanted to help him. Who were impressed with how clever he was. Who didn’t want to hold him back, but help him reach his full potential. They got him books, material, anything he needed, and he finally thought he had it. The only thing left was to try it on a person. So these people took him out, and they brought him someone to experiment on. They told him she was a homeless woman that they’d paid. Except she woke up and started screaming, saying they’d kidnapped her. He didn’t want to do it. You know, that surprised me. The things he’d done before—it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d had no qualms. But he did. These friends of his, though—they told him he had no choice. Whatever it was they threatened him with, he performed the spell. And it killed her.”

            Running a hand over her face, Rebecca says, “I’m not going to tell you I thought about calling the aurors. Because I didn’t. I told him to get out of the shed, and I destroyed everything. Every single scrap. I didn’t vanish it, I burned it, then I buried the ashes. I destroyed every piece of evidence that would have tied him to it. He’s my brother, and it’s my job to protect him. So I destroyed the only evidence that could have maybe linked him to those people. And that means I made it impossible to find them too.

            “He was too scared to sleep. He slept in my bed with me. He said they’d find him. That they’d let him go, but they’d be back. They’d want him to do more things. I told him we should leave. That we’d run. He said it didn’t matter. That they’d find us. I told him, we’ll figure it out in the morning. I told him, I’ll keep you safe. I’ll protect you. I promised him, I wouldn’t let anyone get to him. I don’t know how, but I fell asleep. And when I woke up in the morning, he was outside. Outside lying on the ground, like this.”

            Rebecca lays her hand on Richie’s hair, brushing his curls back from his face.

            “I didn’t tell anyone. At first—I thought he wouldn’t be like this all that long. I thought they’d figure out whatever was wrong with him and he’d wake up. And if I told anyone what happened, the first thing he’d face was a murder charge. He’s sixteen. They put sixteen year olds in Azkaban, even though they’re children. I couldn’t do that to him. And then…he didn’t wake up. They couldn’t wake him up. It’s just dragged on and on, and I’ve been here, waiting for him to wake up, because I didn’t understand. I thought he was…I thought something was wrong with him, but when it mattered, he felt it. He’s still a child, and he didn’t realize. I need to be here for him. I can’t let go of him, not now. Not knowing that he’s capable of…I just can’t.

            “But people are _dying_. These people who did this to my brother, they’re still out there. They’re taking a thing he made and hurting people. That man—that man killed himself in front of you. You tried to help a man who I could have stopped from being hurt in the first place, if I’d just called the aurors, if I’d taken Richie straight to them. He died, and that woman died, and your cousin’s been hurt—and I’ve done nothing. I can’t live like this. I can’t bear it. You’ve only ever been kind to me, and every time I turn around you’re being hurt because I couldn’t open my mouth and tell the truth. I can’t look at you, knowing what I’ve done to you. What I’ve done to everyone. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t.”

            She wraps her hands around Richie’s, and pulls it to her face. Rebecca rolls her face back and forth against it, shutting her eyes.

            For a moment, I just sit here.

            Instead of screaming, asking what the hell she thought she was doing, throwing accusations, I find myself speaking quietly. “You know I have to tell the aurors.”

            Rebecca nods against Richie’s hand. “I wish you would.” She looks over at me. “Albus—I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’m so sorry. I am—so sorry.”

            She lays down her head, and she weeps.

 

When I apparate into my backyard, it’s to a sight that makes me stop a moment. The lights are on.

            I’ve never come home to something like this before. I’ve updated the wards so that Scorpius can get in whenever he pleases, but I think that deeply ingrained Malfoy politeness has kept him from taking advantage. Now, though, the lights are on in the kitchen, and the bathroom as well.

            I like it. I like the idea of coming home at the end of a long day and finding someone waiting for me. It’s actually…it’s enough to shake me, really.

            So I take a moment to enjoy it. The idea that someone would want me enough to be here at the end of the day. I’ve never had that before, really. I am so lucky.

            Opening the door, I lean inside. Instead of Zamora waiting to greet me, there’s a table with food on it. Risotto under a warming spell. Two glasses of wine have been poured, only one is empty. Did he get cross with me for taking so long?

            No. No, of course not. He’s only stepped out to the loo, is all.

            Setting down my bag, I rub the back of my neck while trying to absorb this scene of domesticity. Zamora finally strolls in, wrapping around my legs.

            “Did he feed you?” I ask, bending down to scratch her ears. “You’re not screaming for food, so he must have.”

            Straightening, I walk through the house, seeing the little changes. I don’t leave books out for myself because I assume Scorpius will usually be here. I see the cardigan he left here weeks ago still tossed over the back of the chair. I wear it when he’s not here, like an utter sap.

            I get to the top of the hallway and call, “Is my boyfriend home or are you a very considerate burglar?”

            There’s a strange splashing sound. “You’re home!”

            Frowning, I walk to the door of the bathroom. “What are you doing in there?”

            “Ah—waiting patiently?”

            I put a hand to the door and push it open. I’m met with a light wall of steam. Scorpius has his arms slung over the side of the bathtub, looking dewy and flushed and amused.

            “Hello,” he says.

            I have to bite my lip. For a few seconds, I don’t bother moving. I just look at him, this gorgeous man lying in my bathtub. Skin pink, hair wet, eyes sparkling.

            I cross the room to him, sitting down on the bath mat. After a moment, I lay my face against his arm.

            “I did mean to be waiting at the table for you. Only I had a mishap with the wine, and you know a cleaning spell doesn’t really get wine all the way off, and it was a long day, so I didn’t feel like a shower, and that’s why I’m taking a bath.”

            “You mean to say you didn’t want to just be naked and wet when I came home?”

            Scorpius pauses, then says, “I should have gone with that, shouldn’t I?”

            Lifting my head, I reply, “If you had, I would have carried you out of here over my shoulder and ravished you like something out of an old woman’s bodice ripper. Why was it a long day?”

            “Oh, just office politics. An unmanageable workload. An employer who’s yet to recognize my worth. The usual.” His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong? You look sad.”

            I admit, “I am sad.”

            “Do you want to talk about it?”

            I look at him, this exquisite creature, and smile, shaking my head. “No. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Right now, all I want to do is feast my eyes.”

            “Why, Mr. Potter, you’ll make me blush.”

            “You have no right, you know.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “To look so good.”

            Scorpius snorts. “That silver tongue. That’s why I love you.” He stops, stricken. “Wait—I _have_ told you before that I love you, haven’t I? I’m sure I have—only I’ve tried not to because I don’t want to frighten you, but I’ve said it before, I must have—I did, I’m certain I did—”

            I kiss him to stop his ridiculous mouth moving. Scorpius squeaks. I tangle my fingers into his hair, pushing my other hand down his slippery back. I feel his warm, wet fingers on my face. The aftertaste of wine is on my tongue, deliciously sour.

            I could kiss this man for a thousand years and never tire of it. Every time my lips touch his, there’s an inexplicable thrill. How is this real? What is this spell, and how did I cast it on him?

            I want him.

            Without questioning the impulse, I climb over the side of the tub. Scorpius yelps, “What on Earth—” as I land on him with a wet thud. Immediately, the water begins seeping through my clothes. I grab onto the back of the tub to keep from failing about, then return to kissing Scorpius.

            He’s laughing against my mouth. “What has gotten into you, you madman—”

            Grabbing his leg, I yank it up over my hip. I catch a glimpse of startled silver eyes before licking his mouth. Scorpius stops laughing as I kiss his neck, squeezing his slick flesh with eager fingers.

            He can’t expect to be _this_ attractive and _this_ naked in _my_ house and think I’ll respect any bloody agreements about taking things slow. He’s been my boyfriend more than a month; the least he can do is lie there and take it while I suck him off underwater.

            Scorpius is pawing at me. What is he doing—oh! My jacket, yes. I sit back, peeling off my soaked jacket and throwing it to the floor. Scorpius grabs me, dragging me back down. He’s wrapped both legs around me, and I’d kill him if I wasn’t busy loving him until the end of time.

            My phone starts ringing. I have zero interest in answering. I suck the skin beneath Scorpius’ chin, drawing blood to the surface.

            “Is that in your pocket?”

            “Waterproof spell,” I reply, nipping his skin.

            “You said that before and destroyed your iPhone.”

            “Do you honestly want me to answer—”

            “Never mind; I’ll buy you a new one,” Scorpius gasps, and forces my head up to give me a hard kiss.

            We kiss and try to keep our balance and the phone goes to voice mail. I move down, latching onto his nipple with teeth and mouth. Scorpius bursts out with the most wonderful noise. His hands grab my head, pinning me in place.

            The mobile begins ringing again and Scorpius lets out a roar. “Put that thing on silent or I swear to Nimue—”

            “All right, all right!” I shove back from him enough to stick my hand in my pocket. I maneuver out the phone. When I catch a glance at the name on the screen, I bark. My brother. I turn the phone to Scorpius, about to toss it over the side. “Look at that.”

            “Someone must be dead,” he jokes.

            We both stop. We look at one another.

            The both of us are well aware that my brother would only call me if something terrible happened. James doesn’t call to chat. He doesn’t call at all. If my brother is calling me, it’s because something dreadful has occurred, and with the way the past few months have gone, I shouldn’t be surprised.

            “I’ll get rid of him,” I promise. “I’ll tell him to piss off, and we’ll—” Scorpius is starting to look disappointed. Frustrated, I answer the call, jamming the phone up against my ear. “What! I am five seconds from having a man’s prick in my mouth, so what is so fucking important?”

            “I need help,” James says.

            I don’t understand. “What?”

            “I need help. I’m alone and I’m trapped and I need someone to help me, so I’m asking you to help me. Albus, can you please help me?”

            He sounds desperate. He sounds like he’s barely holding it together.

            Dropping my head, I look at Scorpius’ pretty, pretty pink cock, rising from the water like a beacon. I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes.

            “Yes,” I say regretfully.

            “What’s wrong?” asks Scorpius.

            “I just want you,” James says. “I don’t want anyone else to know. Can you come get me?”

            I look Scorpius in the eyes and blow out the breath of a man with terminal blue bollocks.

 

I’ve been to this neighbourhood before. When Lily was nineteen and she’d fled her latest rehab. It’s made of cement and there’s stacks upon stacks of flats. I can hear loud bass pounding from several of them. A few children crying.

            I could have been bringing my perfect boyfriend to orgasm, but oh no. Here I am, after a Tube ride, a cab, and walking. The sun is going down, and it’s July. James had better be near to murdered, that’s all I’m saying.

            Double checking the address, I look at the building before me. Yeah, it certainly looks like a place my siblings would go to get high. Sighing, I walk towards the stairs.

            I walk up to the third floor, then along the open hallway. When I come to 3004, I listen for the sounds of trouble. I hear a television, and people laughing, but that’s about the extent of it.

            Drawing my wand, I rap on the door with my knuckles. I step back, preparing to blast anyone who looks at me sideways.

            No one comes. Exasperated, I pound on the door with my fist.

            “It’s open, Johnny!”

            Well. That makes things a little easier. I try the door and it opens easily. Merlin’s beard, the smell. James’ flat smells like a dream compared to this. Dubious, I step inside, not bothering to close the door after myself.

            Right off, I hear men laughing in a room down the hall. The hall is littered with clothes and trash. A bulb has burned out overhead, but no one’s bothered replacing it. The air smells musty and toxic. Grimacing, I move forward, keeping my wand ahead of myself.

            “How much you think I’ll get for this?” a voice asks. He’s high, whoever he is. The syllables are heavy, sounding like they’ve emerged from a body about to pitch over. “It’s a auror wand, innit. Not just any auror. Should I keep it?”

            Someone else coughs out, “Keep it, Cy. Trophy.”

            “Yeah. Trophy. It’s mine now, innit. I disarmed him.”

            “You grabbed it from him.”

            “Good as disarmed. It counts. It counts, right? Do I need to—should I hit him with it? Make it mine? Is that how it’s done?”

            They all start laughing again. They sound like idiots, but they also sound so utterly snowed even I could probably win a fight with them. So I lean around the corner.

            There are three men in the room. Two of them are seated. One has a bong half my size that’s curling up sparkling, purple smoke. He’s propping his chin on top to keep himself up right. The man on the chair can barely move. He’s drooped back, glazed eyes following what’s happening.

            The man standing in the middle of the room has my brother’s wand. He’s tall, and lanky, and there are glowing orange veins running up the sides of his face, lighting his eyes. He wiggles James’ wand through the air, mumbling as he looks at it.

            When Cy catches sight of me, he says, “Johnny. When’d you turn brown, mate?”

            I hold out my hand. “ _Accio_.”

            The wand shoots through the air to me. A few seconds pass, then Cy looks down at his hands. Several seconds after that, he says, “ _Hey_.”

            I can hear another voice down the hallway. Furrowing my brows, I walk to the end of it, then around a corner.

            A fourth man is seated on the ground, murmuring to the closed door. He’s skinny, with massive dreads piled on top of his head. He doesn’t notice me coming, but he doesn’t sound as stoned as the others.

            “I can’t hear you anymore, James,” he purrs. “Don’t you want to scream some more? Do you want to cry? No shame in crying, mate. I’ll tell you what—if you cry for me, I’ll make that bubble you’re in a little bigger. Enough that you could _almost_ stand.”

            “ _Petrificus totalis_ ,” I say, before I can lose my temper. I know that if I do, I’ll have another Sian Tolliver on my hands, and I can’t have Mr. Malfoy fixing things every time I have a temper tantrum.

            The man drops to the crusty carpet, arse up. I kick him aside, then put my hands to the door. There’s a faint red glow around it. Anti-apparition spell. Easy enough to bring down when you’re the one casting it. If it’s someone else’s spell? Another story.

            “James,” I say, “it’s me. I’m going to try something. Just stay very still, all right?”          

            All I hear from the other side of the door is a soft gasp.

            Bracing myself, I point my wand at the door. “ _Disparitus armum_.”

            A weak blue light hits the shield, creating little more than a ripple.

            “Oi!” I hear Cy say. “You can’t do that. He’s our prisoner.”

            Bugger this. “ _DISPARITUS ARMUM!_ ”

            The spell that hits the door is nothing like the one Scorpius cast in Dover, but it’s enough to punch a James’ sized hole. I reach through and open the door.

            James comes scrambling out, wheezing. I see barely a glimpse of his frantic green eyes before he falls on his face, hand trying to find purchase.

            I put my hand under his elbow and force him up. “Come on—we have to get out of here—”

            I get his wand into his grasp and drag him around the corner. Fuck. The other three are blocking our way, even the one who didn’t seem capable of movement. Cy points at me with a wand that’s the length of my forearm. “You can’t be—doing that, Johnny! He’s our—he’s our prisoner—”

            Slashing through the air, I send them back through the doorway with a gust of wind strong enough to blow out the other light in the hallway. I shove James forward. “Go.”

            He runs past me, and I walk down the hall, keeping a firm grip on the spell. When I look through the doorway, I see the three men pinned against a wall, the wind overturning everything in the room.

            Mouth blown wide in the gale, Cy looks at me and says in surprise. “ _You’re_ not Johnny.”

            “No shit, genius.” I flick my wand, releasing them, and send them flying across the room into a pile of furniture and trash. This time, I make sure to close the door after myself once I’ve passed through it.

            James is already at the bottom of the stairs. Oh no. If he thinks he’s going to run off and leave me here without getting an earful, he has another thing coming. I jog after him, which is probably a terrible idea because I’m not in any kind of shape for jogging.

            Once I reach the bottom, I find that I’m in luck, because he hasn’t tried to disappear. He can’t, the prick, because we’re under another one of London’s no apparition zones. James is walking in tight little circles, shoulders heaving as he hyperventilates.

            I hope he’s sober enough to hear this, because I have things to _say_ —

            James spins, throwing his wand as far as he can with a roar. I stumble backwards in surprise. He whirls again, throwing a punch at the concrete wall. As soon as he does, I hear the sound of cracking bone. Only he does it again.

            Then he starts slamming his head against the wall.

            I’m running to him, trying to get between him and the wall. “No—James, stop it!” He hits his head again and again before I can reach him. I throw an arm around him, trying to pull him back, but he’s strong, he’s so much stronger than I am. “James, stop it, please don’t—James, I’m not as strong as you, stop—”

            I manage to twist him off his feet enough to put an extra step between him and the wall, but James starts hitting himself in the head with his broken fist. I cup my hand over his skull, trying to protect him from the blows.

            “Stop it—Jamie, please—Jamie—Jamie, stop—”

            He sucks in a breath that sounds somewhere between a scream and a moan. Then he’s doing both, and I’m struggling to keep him on his feet. He grabs onto me, screaming, screaming, until it turns to sobs, until he crumples to the ground and I hold onto him, telling him to stop, that I need him to stop.

            Only he can’t.

 

As I wait for the clerk to give me change, I check again through the window to make sure James is still there. He is. He sits on the kerb, head down.

            I nod my thanks to the clerk, then walk out the door. I go to James’ side, tapping his shoulder with the can. He startles slightly, then takes it gingerly into his bloodied hand, and I sit down beside him.

            It’s dark. I don’t really know where we are. When I got him on his feet, I just walked James as far as I could until I felt like there was enough distance between us and the flat.

            I pop the tab on the can, taking a sip. Cringing at the sweetness. James looks at his can a moment, then presses it to his forehead.

            Frowning, I mutter, “That’s right, you dramatic tit.”

            We sit for a minute. Clearly with no idea of what to say to one another.

            James lowers the can eventually, and plays with the tab. “I hadn’t been out here since we fought. I knew it was a bad idea. Only I had a shitty day, and I thought…what can it hurt. I’m so bloody stupid.”

            “Do you—know those men?”

            James nods. “The idiots, I’d bought from them before. Just minor league stuff, not—Merlin’s beard, I’m not going to try to justify this, not after the shit I just pulled. The other fellow—the one outside the door—that’s Orland Millette. I sent him to Azkaban, two years for dealing.” I give him a hard look. “I know. The irony is not lost upon me, Albus.”

            “How did they get your wand?”

            “I literally stepped through the door and they grabbed it. Next thing I knew, I was in a closet and I couldn’t get out. But it wasn’t the size of a closet. It was smaller. I couldn’t—couldn’t move.” His voice catches, and if he’s not thinking of a blinder’s box then I don’t know my brother at all. “Millette’s a pureblood; the idea of a wizard having a mobile would never occur to him.”

            Still perplexed, I say, “So why did you call _me_?”

            This time, it’s James who turns to gaze at me blankly.

            I think about it, then answer my own question. “Because I am your brother, and you know that I’ll always come when you need me. Fair enough.” I frown. “You could have called Mum or Dad—”

            James lets out a bitter laugh. “Of course. Break Mum’s heart, or disappoint Dad even more than I already have. At least I already know you’re disappointed in me, Al. That I can stand.” He puts the cold can back to his forehead. “They’d let me off light. You know that. They’d say it wasn’t my fault, that I was just going through a hard time. Dad would make it disappear. Mum would want to put me to bed in my old room. The idea of anyone letting me off light right now—no. I need someone who’s going to look at me like I’m the world’s biggest piece of shit. Because that’s what I am.”

            “You’re stealing my thunder here, James.”

            “Sorry.”

            I push my drink towards him. “Have some of that. Get some sugar. Keep holding that one on your head.” I look at his forehead, which is blooming purple. “I can fix that—”

            “No, I’m fine.”

            “James, no one loves a martyr. Let me fix it.”

            For a moment, it looks like he wants to argue. But he sighs in defeat, dropping his hand.

            I take out my wand, casting a discreet healing spell on his forehead, and his cracked knuckles as well. James stops flinching so much, and I tuck my wand back into my jacket. “That should help a little. I can’t do anything about the self pitying or the post traumatic stress, though. I’m only a wizard.”

            James takes my open can, having a sip. I don’t suppose he wants to drink out of the bloodied one. Swishing the liquid in his mouth, James says quietly, “You haven’t called me Jamie since we were kids.”

            Uncomfortable, I reply, “You haven’t let me.”

            “I don’t know why you came tonight, Albus. I haven’t given you any reason to.”

            “Stop—”

            “We were okay when we were kids, weren’t we? I picked on you something terrible when we were little, but that’s because I was your big brother. It’s only in school that it all…fell apart.”

            “I was a weird kid.”

            “You were an easy target. I don’t know how it happened. You went from being my little brother to a stranger that I hated, and I don’t even know why.”

            “Peer pressure, sorting, the usual. Your typical Gryffindor arrogance.” I think about it, then admit, “My typical Slytherin defensiveness.”

            “When you came to school, Dad made me promise to take care of you. Pulled me aside and said, you need to look after Albus. You’re the big brother, you have to make sure he’s safe. When they were sorting, I had a seat open next to myself at the table. I was excited. Then you went Slytherin, and everyone turned on me. Wanting to know if there was something wrong with _me_. And—I don’t know. It was my friends or you. It seems so simple, looking back at it. I chose to hate you so I could keep my place. And it’s nearly fourteen years on and I don’t even know why you came when I called.”

            “You’re the one always telling me not to dwell on the past.”

            “I don’t know about you, but I don’t much care for dwelling on my mistakes. There’s too many. It all seems like mistakes.”

            Wrapping my arms around my knees, I say, “James, I don’t hate you. We’re just not…close, is all. It’s fine.”

            “Is it?”

            I avoid his gaze. “I don’t see why not.”

            “I thought you were crazy when you came to me for help. You asked me for help and I told you no. I asked you for help and you didn’t hesitate.”

            “Only so I could lord it over you for years to come.”

            “No. You’re lying.” I hunch my shoulders. This is becoming a day for family confessions, and it makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. James says, “How is it you ended up the one of us with things together? How did that even happen?”

            “I know, you were all expecting the opposite.”

            “No.” I glance at him, and James rolls his eyes. “Yes. All right? Yes. I half thought you’d be some dark wizard off plotting our communal demise. Lily, she was supposed to be famous. Adored. She was supposed to light up the room any time she went in it. And me. I was supposed to be married by now. Famous auror. Respected. Kids. I’m older than Mum and Dad were when they had me. Who’s going to want to marry some disgraced cripple who can’t even escape a closet?”

            “If I escaped a closet, James, so can you.”

            “I think the two are slightly different.”

            “Just trying to help.”

            “It was supposed to be different, Al. We’re Harry Potter’s children. It was supposed to all be ours.”

            “Expecting things to be perfect is a lot to put on a child’s shoulders.”

            “I can’t hate him, Albus. I know you’d understand me better if I did. You’d probably respect me more if I could say, it was him. All these expectations, trying to constantly get his approval, trying to live up to all the people he lost—I should be able to say it was unfair. But I can’t.”

            Watching him, I say, “I think you just did.”

            James looks down at the pavement, shaking his head. “He went through so much—“      

            “So we didn’t have to.” James looks at me, and I say, “We can’t replicate his suffering, James. The only thing that would ever make him think we’re exactly on his level is if we experienced the same things he did. And literally no one can do that. He’s a one off. His—suffering was so great, and his triumphs were so great, that there is literally no way we can ever reach it. We’ll never understand him. And because of the life he lived, he’ll never understand us. He can’t. He tries, sometimes, but most of the time—it’s great man syndrome. Great men are rarely good men. Dad’s…a good man. Just not in the ways we needed.” I shrug, sighing. “I don’t need you to hate Dad. _I_ don’t hate Dad. I just don’t have the capacity to be in awe of him. He’ll never be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, to me. He’s just my dad. And he wasn’t a great dad. At least not for me.”

            A few seconds go by, and James says, “What does it feel like to just— _say_ things like that?”

            “You mean as opposed to keeping it all repressed under some childish façade of heroism? Pretty good, to tell the truth. I hate myself a lot less.” I hook my fingers around my ankles. “You need to promise me you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

            “Albus—”

            “You need to promise me. We might not be close, but you’re my brother, and if I lost you—just when you’re beginning to display the tiniest sliver of self awareness—I would not take it well.”

            James exhales. “It doesn’t make sense.”

            “What doesn’t?”

            “Why it’s me here. Sitting here, with you. Instead of her, at home with her kids. Why is it me and not her?”

            After a moment, I decide to just tell him the truth. “Because you killed her.” I hear his breath catch. “You made a mistake. A terrible mistake, that you can never take back. But you need to learn to live with it. Because losing one person to a terrible mistake is already too much. The universe doesn’t need you to kill yourself in penance. It does no one any good. So you need to stop. You need to turn this around.” Looking away, I murmur, “I need my brother.”

            We’re silent a long while.

            “What am I going to do, Al? What do I do now?”

            “You need to figure that out yourself. You’re not going to do what Dad tells you, or what Mum tells you, or what I tell you. You need to be your own person. Okay?”

            “That’s inspiring—really, it is—but how the fuck do you think I go about doing that?”

            I smile.

            James sits up a little straighter. “I don’t mind, you know,” he says. “If you call me Jamie.”

            I nod. “All right. I loathe it when you call me Al.”

            James nods. “Okay.” He blows out a breath. “I want kebab.”

            I think about it. “I could murder a kebab right now.” I push myself to my feet, then hold my hand down to him.

            After a moment, James takes it.

 

It’s close to one when we reach my house. We sat in a late night kebab shop, talking to one another like we were just people. Talking about some things that weren’t important. And some things that were.

            This time, when I land in the backyard, there are no lights on. Of course not. It’s a work night. I told Scorpius I wouldn’t be long. Maybe he grew sick of waiting and went home. I wouldn’t blame him, after I abandoned him.

            The voice in my head, the one that’s not awful all the time, says I should try believing the best in him a bit more. He’s shown me little evidence to the contrary.

            James clears his throat. “I don’t really have to—I could go home—”

            I turn on him instantly. “James Sirius Potter, get inside this bloody second—”

            He already has his hands up, slinking past me. “Fine, calm down.”

            “If I wake up tomorrow and you’ve topped yourself—”

            “I said all right, Albus!”

            Grumbling, I open the back door for him. The house is dark and silent. It’s too late for even Zamora to come and greet me. The table’s been cleared. I sigh. So much for that glass of wine.

            I lead James through the house, and we’re both being quiet as we can. But the bedroom door cracks open and Scorpius pokes his head out. He looks at the both of us and asks, “Is everything all right?”

            James and I look at one another. I can see that he’s dreading whatever I have to say.

            Only it’s been a difficult day for us both, so I just say, “James is going to stay here tonight.” Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I put him up all the time.

            Scorpius catches on quickly, probably because he’s not an emotional cripple like James and I. “Okay. We’re up pretty early if you want breakfast, James.”

            “All right,” James says awkwardly, and Scorpius slips back into the bedroom.

            I push open the door to the guest room. “You’re in here. Ah—spare blankets and towels are in there—toilet’s on the other side of that wall.”

            “It’s nice,” James remarks, and I realize he’s never actually slept here before.

            “Thank you.” I pat my hands against my pockets. “I know you don’t want to stay more than the one night, but—anyways. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

            James nods, then says hesitantly, “So you and him are really…”

            I roll my eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Get some sleep.” I step backwards, reaching for the door.

            “Night. Albus?” I pause, not wanting to be thanked, not wanting anything else heavy set on my incapable shoulders. Avoiding my eyes, James says, “I owe you.”

            “Don’t be daft. You don’t owe me anything. You’re my brother.” I pull the door closed, “Good night.”

            The door clicks shut, and I take a moment to just stand. I’m _exhausted_. It hits me suddenly, the last dregs of adrenaline trickling away. It’s the middle of the night, and James scared the life out of me.

            So much for a comfortable distance. He seems intent on making me care.

            Yawning, I walk the last few steps into the bedroom.

            I stop short. Scorpius sits on the side of the bed, an odd look on his face.

            “Just now,” he says, “when he asked what was happening between us, why did you say you didn’t know?”

            Are we really? Right now? I’m half out of my mind tired, so I say, “Maybe I’m waiting to see when you’ll go back to Rose.” And I mean it as a joke. I do.

            Scorpius pulls his head back. Unimpressed, he says, “That’s not funny.”

            Why can’t he see that I don’t want to get into this? “Yeah. I know.”

            Scorpius looks at me a long moment. Then he turns around, rolling over to his usual spot on the bed, and puts his back to me. “Good night.”

            I stand here, frustrated. Fine. Whatever. I undress, then climb onto my side. I glance at Scorpius’ back.

            Shaking my head, I close my eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

Well, this is…distressingly domestic.

            I’m the last to reach the breakfast table. I didn’t expect to see James awake, and I was worried about that. Was I supposed to just leave him in my house? The only person I’m comfortable leaving here is Scorpius. But no, James is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and some toast, looking tired but not as…whatever he was last night.

            Scorpius is toasting bread with his wand, his back to me. Is he upset with me? We’ve never really—left things like that before. Am I supposed to apologize? _He’s_ the one who should apologize, getting peculiar over a turn of phrase when I was about to pass out from exhaustion.

            Before I can say anything, two owls come barrelling through the open window. I yelp and duck as they dive right at me. They do a turn about the room, then they each throw a rolled up paper at James and Scorpius. James catches it lazily with his one hand, Scorpius drops his, same as always. The owls shoot back out the window, Zamora racing after them with an angry howl.

            Straightening, I say in irritation, “Can you two not get your news online like grown ups?” I drop onto a chair, pushing my hair back.

            “Oh good, he’s starting the morning off in a mood,” Scorpius says.

            “This isn’t a mood, it’s my natural disposition.”

            “We know,” Scorpius and James say at the same time. They look at one another, flabbergasted.

            Scorpius recovers first, putting a plate with toast before me. It’s buttered just how I like it. “What’s the plan for today, then?”

            I look at James, waiting to see what he says. After all, Scorpius and I know what we’re doing. James pushes his toast around the plate, then says, “I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t really fancy going back to the flat. It’s…gotten a bit out of hand.”

            I bark, and Scorpius frowns at me. Sitting down with his paper, Scorpius asks, “Does it need some cleaning? I know people.”

            “Ah—it doesn’t need cleaning, exactly.”

            “It needs a priest,” I say bluntly.

            James pauses, then says, “I should get in there and clean it. Suppose that’s what I’ll do.” He scowls at his stump. “Bloody useless with this thing.”

            “If you can wait until the weekend, I can help,” I say. “I’m sure Hugo would pitch in too, if he’s not too busy saving the downtrodden.”

            “No, I’m sure I can—”

            “Can you do it by yourself?” James glares at me begrudgingly. I shrug, saying, “Then we’ll be there on Saturday.”

            Scorpius looks between us, over his open paper. “Glad to see you’re mending fences.” We both give him a look, and he puts his head down.

            Zamora comes sauntering back in, feathers sticking out of her mouth. I put my hands down for her, lifting her into my lap. “Let’s get those icky things out, princess. We don’t know where they’ve been, do we? Here we are.” I tear off a piece of toast for her, setting it in front of the plate. She nibbles on that, and I play with her paws, tapping them against the table like she’s playing a piano. After a moment, I realize James is staring at me. “What?”

            He shakes his head, going back to his breakfast.

            Scorpius lets out a noise somewhere between a snort and laugh at something he’s read. “Who’s done what?” I ask.

            Shaking the pages, Scorpius says, “That soul sucking cretin Tolliver has dropped off the face of the planet.” I freeze. Oblivious, Scorpius continues, “Have I ever told you about him? Sian Tolliver?”

            James is giving me a hard look, which Scorpius is immune to behind his paper. “No,” I reply. “Who’s he then?”

            “Well, they’re calling him a political operative in the _Prophet_ , but he’s really just a vulture, pulling rotten meat off the bones. He only made the sixth page. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow.” Scorpius flips the page, none the wiser as James and I face off.

            He looks about ready to kill me. Bugger this. I press against his mind with my own. James cringes, incredulous. I try to convey, _just let me, all right_? with my face. James raises his eyes to the ceiling, then reluctantly drops guard.

            I haven’t used legilimency on anyone in years, mostly because I haven’t really had anyone I needed to have a private conversation with. But it’s like riding a bike. Just one of those weird skills I have. I project to him the last things Sian said to me, hearing the words ripple through my mind.

            I pull back as quickly as I’m able, trying not to shudder. I hate doing that. Being anywhere near another person’s brain is just…ugh.

            When I can look up again, James is trying hard not to lose his temper. But I can see that it’s not me he’s angry with.

            To no one in particular, James says, “You know, I’ve seen Tolliver around the Ministry before. You’re right—couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow.”

            He goes back to eating breakfast.

            Scorpius makes an absent minded sound, then says, “There’s another owl.”

            Annoyed, I say, “What am I, an owlery—” as a compact tawny owl comes flapping in. It drops an envelope on the table beside my plate, then has the pleasure of being chased out by my cat.

            There’s a seal on it from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. “What did you do now?” James asks. Scorpius looks over his paper in curiosity.

            I open the envelope, then say, “They just need me to sign some papers. I guess I’ll come there for lunch, if that’s all right with you.”

            “Sign papers for what?” Scorpius says.

            Shrugging, I toss the envelope down. “I inadvertently discovered who created the Squib Spell.”

            They both stop and stare at me while I eat my toast.

 

There are more aurors than ever before at the hospital. I hear people murmuring among themselves, asking what’s going on. The news hasn’t gotten out yet. St. Mungo’s, though, is a leaky ship, and I’m sure it won’t take long.

            I take the stairs, ignoring the portraits as they pass judgment on the circles around my eyes—one witch yells, “Did I not tell you to have that looked at or your tongue would outgrow your mouth?”—too focused on my cup of coffee and the thought of Scorpius to pay attention.

            Was I out of line? Not any more than I usually am, I don’t think. I haven’t really said anything like that to him before, but I was so tired. And why did he get bent out of shape because I didn’t feel like describing our relationship status to my brother? Like I need to tell James the ins and outs of my relationship with Scorpius, particularly after he’s tried to crack his own head like an egg.

            Scorpius was just being pissy, is all.

            He did tell me that he loved me, though.

            I stop on the top step, blinking.

            Right. Just before I left, he said he’d loved me, and I didn’t say it back, and then I told my brother I didn’t know what we were.

            I’m the prick. Of course I am.

            Sighing, I keep walking. Nothing I can do about it right now. I’ll see him in a few hours for lunch. I can apologize then. Or if not apologize, exactly, try to make things better.

            Boyfriend of the year. That’s me.

            I step through the door, and walk almost directly into Suzette.

            She doesn’t bother to smile, or pretend concern, or any of the usual tricks. This is as upset as I’ve ever seen her, face grim and eyes blank.

            “I need you in my office right now,” Suzette says, then turns and walks away.

            Salazar’s _tits_ , you must be joking. It’s nine in the morning and I’ve had a little less than five hours sleep. I don’t have the patience for this.

            Squaring my shoulders, I check to make sure my Squib Rights button is in place. Front and center. Good. I grit my teeth and stride down the hall.

            Suzette is seated behind her desk, hands clenched. “Close the door,” she says. “Sit down.”

            Cautiously, I take a seat in the squeaky chair. I don’t bother setting down my bag, I just hold it in my lap, other hand on my coffee.

            Without further ado, Suzette says, “You’re finished here. You will clear your office and be out of the building within the next fifteen minutes. Your contract with the Ministry will be terminated. You will never work for the Ministry again, and you will not make the effort unless you plan to be raked across the court of public opinion. We have put up with you quite enough, and now it is time for you to leave.”

            Picking up her wand, Suzette opens the door.

            I sit here, holding my coffee, trying to process what she’s said.

            “No,” I reply.

            Suzette blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

            I lift my hand, and with a twist of the fingers close the door again.

            “If you thought that you could get rid of me with vague threats, you have severely underestimated me.”

            “It is not vague. If you need specifics—”

            “Suzette, don’t embarrass yourself. If I was going to be fired, it would be by my actual employer, at the Ministry. You have no power to terminate my contract.”

            “I am giving you a chance,” Suzette hisses. “Leave now, or I will take this over your head.”

            I look at the door, then her. “See—if I’d done something wrong, then I would take you up on that. If I was guilty of anything, the logical thing would be to leave. Of course, it would also serve as an admission of guilt. Since I’ve done nothing wrong—”

            “Nothing _wrong_ —”

            “I’ll return to my office and continue working.”

            Suzette leans forward, face starting to blotch red. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you. You come in here—with _no_ respect, thinking you’re better than everyone—you make a mockery of this place, of me, and think there will be no consequences—”

            “Consequences for what? I come in here, do my job to the best of my abilities, which my superiors are entirely aware of—”

            “You’ve been selling confidential information. You’ve broken the seal of privacy.” I roll my eyes, and Suzette says, “I can prove it! I’ve seen the papers—things no one else could have known, over and over—you are the only one in this department with access to everyone’s information. Everyone else is confined to their specialties, but you— _you’re_ the only one who sees every admission record. You’re the only one with access to it all. That means it was you.”

            “That’s all well and good, Suzette, but you seem to have forgotten that there’s another person with unfettered access to admission records.”

            “There is no one else!”

            “There’s you.”

            She goes still, mouth in an O.

            Keeping my voice steady and calm, I say to her, “How could you know that these leaks were all coming from the hospital, from the Records Department, if you weren’t the one who’d seen them? After all, you’re head of the department. You don’t even have to request permission, you just look. You have access to information I’d never be able to touch in a million years, as you’ve made sure to tell me on more than one occasion.”

            “That’s—that’s preposterous, I would never—”

            “I find it really _sad_ , Suzette, that you’re trying to cover your tracks by foisting blame onto someone else instead of taking responsibility for your own actions. In fact, you should probably be ashamed of yourself.”

            Suzette stutters, “Why—why you—”

            “Of course, unlike you, I actually have proof. September 28, 2028. It was the oddest thing, you know. I’m not sure how I got that report. After all, every other copy seemed to be destroyed. That man, he nearly killed his wife. Horrible thing. Such a coincidence too, that you and he have the same last name. Siblings, eh?”

            Breathing heavily, Suzette stares at me a long moment. “No one would ever believe you.”

            “But they would.”

            She rallies. “No one would believe a word out of your mouth! I’ve been here thirty years, I’m respected—I know people—”

            “Do you really?”

            “You’re no one, you’re a last name and nothing else. I’ve built a reputation—people know my reputation—”

            Tiring of this, I decide to finish it. “Let’s look at this logically, Suzette. You’re a woman who’s been stuck in the same position for decades, unrecognized and overlooked, despite the eight times you’ve applied for a position at the Ministry. Eight. You’ve never been allowed to rise higher than you are, so you thought you’d get one over on everyone by selling information. You must have felt very important.”

            “No one would ever believe that—”

            “Is that coming from the woman who covered up ten years of records being stolen? Or the woman who refused to look into a matter that would have saved Hermione Granger’s son from being maimed? I’m not sure what you think your reputation is at the moment, Suzette, but I imagine you know you’re on thin ice. And I imagine you thought throwing them Harry Potter’s son would make you look good, but that was a miscalculation. Even if they thought I’d done something wrong—which I haven’t—it would be covered up so quickly that it would be like you’d never even spoken. Do you know the things my family’s gotten away with? Being the Chosen One’s son, while obnoxious, has its perks, and one of them is not having to deal with the petty jealousies of minor bureaucrats. If you told anyone that you thought I’d done something illegal, _you_ would be seen as a nuisance, and nothing more.

            “Add to that my current reputation, and you’ve picked a very poor time to make your move. I’m the man who tried to tell you, the Ministry, and the world about the Squib Spell. I’m having something of a renaissance. I’m known as the man who pursued an uncomfortable truth. Besides that, everyone knows you’ve had it out for me since I started here. Since I’m very good at keeping records, I’ve kept records on you. Every time you made a comment, every time you asked me to do something against my contract, every time you overstepped your bounds, it went on paper. That paper is just sitting in a safe place, ready to drop on you, if you really want to push. Think very carefully about it, Suzette. Who would you believe? A thwarted paper pusher with an axe to grind—or a man who’s done his job, who has no reason to break the rules, and whose last name is very, _very_ famous? What do you think the court of public opinion would have to say about that?”

            She’s frozen, but I can see the horror in her eyes.

            I take a deep breath, scooting forward. “Well, I’m glad we got that out in the open. Chin up, Suzette. You made your play, and you failed. I’m here for five and a half more months, and you will not have another thing to say to me. You will not comment on my wardrobe. You will not ask me for my work before it’s due. You will abandon this ridiculous idea that I’ve been selling our patients’ valuable, sacred information. And after Christmas, you and I will never have to see one another again. So let’s carry on, shall we?” I get to my feet, adjusting the strap of my bag. “I’d cheerfully remind you not to fuck with me again, Suzette. It won’t end well. For you.”

            I walk to the door, Suzette’s silence saying more than words ever could.

            When I open the door, I look back at her. “You know, funniest thing—I saw in the paper today about that man disappearing. Tolliver, was it? He lives just down the street from you, as I recall.”

            She’s looking at me like I’m something entirely foreign. Like I’m a kind of monster she’s never seen before.

            I smile at her. “Wonder what happened to him.”

            I close the door after myself.

 

I’m in such a bright mood that I don’t immediately eviscerate Springstep when I walk into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It helps that he’s clearly frightened of me now.

            Is this what it feels like to have power? Blimey, no wonder it turned Dad’s head.

            He has the papers waiting for me, and I immediately set about signing them. There’s about thirty of them, which is par for course when it comes to the Ministry. It’s a wonder we haven’t entirely deforested Britain. Yet. As I sign, I make small talk, which is unlike me. Only I can tell it unnerves him, and I’m a sadistic prick, so here we are.

            When I get to the last page, I sign my name once more with a flourish. “There we are! And that, Springstep, should conclude our dealings.”

            I step back, and he clears his throat. Nervously, Springstep says, “Would—you like to get a drink sometime?”

            Without missing a beat, I answer, “Not even if you ejaculated streams of toffee and farted clouds of MDMA.” I wave as I walk out the door. “Take care!”

            I walk to the cafeteria with my hands in my pockets and my head up. I feel different. Most of the time, I walk with my head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Today I don’t care who sees me.

            I slayed the dragon.

            Of course, she was entirely right and I’m a criminal many times over, but I never claimed to be anything but a hypocrite.

            I stride into the cafeteria, craning my head to try and find Scorpius. It’s not that busy, but I can’t catch sight of him.

            “Albus.” I turn. Scorpius jogs the last few steps to me with a self deprecating smile. “This doesn’t count as late, does it?”

            “Suppose I’ll let it slide.”

            There’s an awkward moment, where we simply stand here. The impulse to lean in to kiss him is strong, but we’re in the middle of the Ministry. So no thank you.

            “How’s your day?” I try instead.

            He pulls a face, gesturing towards an empty table. “Something’s going on down there,” Scorpius says as we walk. “I can’t tell you yet, but it’s big. Every time I turn around, Merrick has me running to some dusty vault to find this or that report. The higher ups are having a tizzy—”

            I barely catch sight of the white blur before it buries itself in Scorpius’ hair. He yelps, and I quickly make out that it’s a paper airplane.

            “Sodding memos!” Scorpius struggles to get it out without ruining his hair. I can only watch. It’s actually quite adorable. Unfolding the plane, Scorpius quickly scans the memo. He slumps. “Bugger.”

            “You have to go?”

            “No—well, _yes_ , but—” Scorpius frowns with irritation. “I wanted to sit with you. At least for a bit.”

            “Can you do whatever it is and come back?”

            “I need to go to the other side of the building, and _that_ takes an age in and of itself—” Scorpius pauses, then says hopefully, “You want to come with?”

            Do I want to go traipsing all over the back halls of the Ministry during my lunch hour? Not particularly. But just looking at his face, there’s no way to say no. “Sure,” I say. “Walking will do me good.”

            The smile on his face feels like more than I deserve.

            We walk together towards the lift, and I wonder if I should say anything about last night. Scorpius seems all right, but is he? I can’t tell. He’s always so relentlessly kind, but I know there’s more going on under the surface. Does he need me to say something? I don’t want to. It’s not in my nature.

            Scorpius presses the button, then waits. He taps his foot a little. When he realizes I’m watching him, he smiles. “What?”

            “I—” The doors open. A small flock of people push out. Clearing my throat, I just try to keep my feet. Scorpius slips inside, and I go with him. Turning to face out, I try again. “I wanted to say—”

            “Just a second. Hall of Records, section C, please! Sorry, what is it?”

            I open my mouth, and a hand suddenly snatches the door as it tries to close. “Caught it!” A wizard steps inside, followed by many— _many—_ others. “Everyone in! We can all fit!”

            They all just keep coming. Scorpius and I are pushed back against the wall, and we automatically move to the corner. I’m shoved up against him, hearing muffled apologies from the people pressing me into this position. Scorpius and I glance at one another, displeased. Personal space in public should be inviolate. On that we agree.

            Someone yelps, “Department of Land Management!” and the lift takes off sideways.

            The people around us start to chat, completely ignoring Scorpius and I. I’m pressed arm to arm with him, chewing on my lip. It’s like we don’t even exist back here.

            A notion crosses my mind. I resist the urge to glance at him. I wonder what he’d do?

            Before I can change my mind, I push my hand behind Scorpius, running it down his backside, hooking my fingers against his cleft.

            I hear him suck in a startled breath, but I don’t look at him. Just keep your eyes forward, Albus. Nothing’s happening. Nothing for anyone to be alarmed by.

            The witch and wizard directly in front of us are having a spirited discussion about land claims and centaur rights. I look through them, twitching my fingers.

            From my peripheral vision, I see Scorpius looking down, swallowing. I slowly, confidently move my fingers and nothing else. Stroking. Caressing. Pressing. I move my hand lower, fingertips slipping between his legs.

            His breath catches. I inconspicuously fondle him, like I’ve done a dozen other men, but none like this. There are no other men like him.

            He has the loveliest arse. Not non existent, like mine. His isn’t showy or insistent, like some men I’ve had. It’s a pale, lovely curve that clothes simply couldn’t do justice to. I’ve thought many times about what it must be like to fuck this arse. To have it nestled back against my hips as I make him take me all the way.

            I have to work to keep my breath steady. I’m thinking of it right now. Fucking him. Having him in my bed, having him take me inside. I squeeze his flesh, and I feel his muscles contract. His body is working with my touch. He wants this.

            I wonder how far we could go, like this. Surrounded by other people. My fingers finding his secret places. I know all manner of spells to take this further. With a wordless spell, I set my fingers to warming. I can’t feel it, just a light tingle, but he can. I can tell from the way his chest heaves.

            My fingers can only go so far in this position, falling just short of the ultimate goal. Maybe that’s better. Sometimes the tease is better than the thing itself—

            Scorpius barks, “Third floor, Enchanted Materials!”

            The lift abruptly shoots in a different direction, startling everyone, myself included. I quickly, discreetly pull my hand away as some of our travelling companions cast dirty looks in our direction, anticipating the struggle about to occur.

            Less then ten seconds later, the lift comes to a stop. Scorpius is already shoving his way out, not even bothering to apologize. I follow him, too English not to mutter a ‘sorry’ here and there.

            When I pop out into the hallway, Scorpius glances at me once to make sure I’m following, then stalks away. Uh oh. I can’t tell if he’s turned on or upset with me. Was this a miscalculation? I scurry after him.

            There is no one around. It is dead silent down here. Whatever Enchanted Materials is, no one seems interested. All the doors are closed, no shadows moving behind them. There’s only the sound of our footfalls.

            Scorpius opens an unmarked door, holding it for me, and gesturing me in with a brusque gesture. I do as he wants, stepping into a pristine bathroom with six empty, open stalls. He follows me, shutting the door.

            I’m grabbed by the lapels of my jacket, thrown back against the door, and then my mouth is attacked. There’s no other word for it. The kiss Scorpius lays on me is open mouthed, all teeth, frenzied.

            Yes. I want.

            I throw my arms around his neck, taking handfuls of his hair as Scorpius keeps me shoved backwards with his body, hands roaming my sides and back. He bites me, and I cry out. With a growl, I tilt his head better for me to kiss it, just as vicious as he is. He thrusts up against me, and I could wail.

            Scorpius spins me around, pushing me backwards. “Come here,” he says, advancing on me while also forcing me to move back. I move away, just as he wants, smoldering. “Come here.” I walk backwards into a stall and Scorpius comes after me, slamming the door. He grabs me by the nape of the neck, shoving me against the wall, and lays his teeth into my neck.

            This time I do wail. My hips move upwards automatically as he sucks and bites on my neck, one hand holding me in place, the other yanking the buttons on my trousers open. Oh my God—yes. All I see are his curls, the ceiling, the opposite wall. He pushes a hand inside my pants, taking hold of me, and the sound I let out is guttural, barely human.

            He might guide my hand to him, or maybe I just do it of my own volition, but my fingers are on his cock, and there’s too much fabric in the way. I grab the top of his trousers, tearing until a button pops, then force my hand inside, feeling another button give way.

            Scorpius is stroking me so quickly, so unceasingly, that there’s little I can do for him at first. I’m trying, but he’s touching me just how I like—like I’m owned, like I can take it, and the fact that it’s him, my sweet Scorpius who’s being so rough with me, just makes it all the better. I try to return the favour but how can I when I feel this good?

            I’m panting into his open mouth, feeling that electric bloom starting in the pit of my stomach. How can he do this to me? How can I survive this, when he’s just—so—good?

            I stroke his cock in bursts, trying to focus so I don’t come quickly, except it’s getting to be too much. It’s too much—it’s too much—oh— _oh_ —

            Faintly, I hear myself make some sound. I don’t even know what it is. My hands are clenched and I just hold onto him for dear life as this thing rips through me.

            Yes. Yes. Yes.

            I open my eyes, cringing with sensitivity as Scorpius pulls his hand off me. No, too soon, it’s still happening, keep going. Only he sticks his fingers in his mouth, holding my eyes as he sucks my spill off his hand.

            I lose it. Too much.

            I stroke him as fast and ferociously as I’m able, fully wracked with aftershocks. Scorpius puts his sticky hand to my face, and the fact that I’ve done this to him, this filthy thing, just makes it so much better.

            It’s like he bursts. I feel wet warm painting my stomach, but I don’t stop stroking. I want him to come, and come, and come for me.

            He does. He leans against me, groaning, and lets me take him for every solitary drop.

            Okay. All right.

            I’m shaking. I’m shivering. Thank Merlin I’m propped up by a wall or we’d both fall over. I let his hot, wilting prick loose, reaching bonelessly around to his side. Scorpius pats my face absently, the both of us heaving as we fight to catch our breath.

            He pulls back enough to press his forehead to mine. We kiss, briefly, exhausted, and then we just fall against one another, arms loosely wrapped around each other’s body.

            “What even are you?” I whisper.

            Scorpius replies, “I’m the man who thinks you hang the fucking moon, Albus Potter.”

 

I spend the afternoon floating on a cloud. My afternoon goes by so hazily that it’s a delight. I plunk papers onto their piles, extracting data with a hum, flicking my wand side to side like a conductor before his symphony.

            Oh, to be well fucked. How I’ve missed this.

            At the end of the day, I spin out of my chair and skip out through the front door, waving goodbye to Nadine. Suzette’s shades are drawn, making it impossible to see her. This day has just been the best.

            I’m in such a good mood that I actually engage in conversation with a chatty Canadian tourist on the commute home. His name is Daniel, and he’s a slightly goofy older queer who wears a bowtie. He tells me all about the shows he’s seen in the West End so far, and I don’t even have to fake interest. I actually take down the name of a play. Maybe it’s something Scorpius would enjoy.

            I arrive home with a flourish, picking up Zamora and dancing her around the kitchen. She meows as I flail her paws around. She’s an exceedingly good sport about it.

            When I get it out of my system, I give her far too many treats. “All right,” I concede. “I know, I’m being over the top right now. But it’s a rare day when I get to be this happy, so if you could humour me.” Zamora ignores me, chomping down her treats, which I assume means she’s giving me leeway to act as ridiculously as I please.

            I glance around the kitchen. I should make dinner. I’ll cook us both dinner to make up for the one I missed last night. Pasta. No, too heavy, especially if I want to try my luck and carry him off to the bedroom. Some sort of salad? Scorpius is such a good sport, eating all my green food when I know he could cheerfully down a steak.

            I’ll make some sort of quinoa salad, because I’m _that_ kind of pretentious twat. Sorted!

            Before I start putting things together, I light the fireplace. Half the time, Scorpius works later than I do, and he told me he would tonight. He’ll come home by Floo.

            Home. This could be his home one day. He’s here enough. Five nights out of the week, typically.

            Albus, slow down. You’ve been together a month and a half. You’ve only just had your first mutual orgasm, in respect of his boundaries. At this rate, you might officially cohabitate by 2040.

            Nonetheless, as I cook, I harbour fantasies of us truly living together. I’d have to expand the closet. He already takes up half of mine, and that’s barely the start of his clothes. I imagine days when he’s sick and I have to go to work, and I tuck the blankets up to his chin and kiss his warm forehead before leaving him in our bed, fretting about him all day.

            What has _happened_ to me? I’m hopeless.

            I try to chew my smile into submission, but my lips keep tugging back into that half moon shape.

            I just love him. I love him so much that it hardly bothers me how absurd I am right now. All the world’s problems seem to have simply melted away because I love him. And he loves me. This wonderful, astonishing man loves me.

            I have the quinoa boiling in the saucepan when I hear the fire flare in the other room. Tapping the wooden spoon against the side of the pan, I call, “Before you start on me, before all your bloody teasing, you should know it’s your fault, you absolute—”

            “Sweetheart, I’m probably not who you think it is, before you keep talking.”

            My mother. Shit. When on earth is the last time she came by? “Hi! Sorry, I’m just in the middle of—” I glance back, seeing her walk into the kitchen. “I’m cooking.”

            Mum smiles. “I see that.”

            “I can make more if you’re staying.”

            “Oh, no. I just needed to stop by for a few minutes.” She gestures to the table. “May I?”

            “Of course. Do you want something to drink?”

            “No, I’m fine.” I look back. She’s watching me, affectionate. “Don’t mind me. I like to see you being a responsible adult.”

            “You say that as if it’s a novelty. I’m not James.”

            “I love your sharp edges, darling. It always makes our chats unpredictable. It’s been awhile since you and I had a sit down, isn’t it.”

            “Yes. Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

            “Avoiding me.”

            “No. I’ve just—been busy.” I’ve been up to my eyeballs with being Scorpius Malfoy’s boyfriend. Mum will be my mum for my entire life. Scorpius might be my boyfriend for a short stretch. I need to make the most of it. “You said you had to come by? What’s wrong?”

            Mum inhales, then says, “Lily might come around, asking for money. I need you to say no.”

            I snort. “That’s never been a problem.”

            “I know. I just…really need to make sure the whole family’s on the same page. She’s going to have to make some difficult decisions soon. She won’t be able to make them herself if we’re always bailing her out.”

            “Are we trying tough love now?”

            “I think…yes, we are. I’m not sure what it is about this last time, Al. Finding out like that—I guess I hadn’t realized I wanted this time to be _the_ time. It’s been difficult.”

            Uncomfortable, I say, “Sorry. You know me. Never the best at family gatherings.”

            “Child of mine, one thing you’ve always been is _terribly_ honest, and I mean that in every sense of the word. It’s better that we know. Pretending like it’s not happening has never gotten us very far.” Mum taps her fingernails against the table, then says, “Don’t be too cruel, if she comes round. Firm, but not cruel.”

            “I think ‘cruel’ is the only language Lily would understand.” I lower the heat, putting a lid on the pan. I leave it to simmer, taking a seat across the table from Mum. “Besides Lily, how are you?”

            “Fine.”

            “Mum.”

            “I am! Work’s the same as always. Your father’s excited about his birthday, though he’d never admit it.” Mum props her head up and confesses, “Your granddad’s trying to domesticate the gnomes again.”

            “Oh no. Not after last time.”

            “I told him, the older you are the more difficult it is to regenerate fingers. But he won’t listen. I think that if one took off his thumb, he might think it was cute.”

            We both look at one another, smiling a little. I try to see myself in her face. I really do. Only I cannot find a single trace. I see Lily there, but not myself, and not James. My brother and I seem to have been formed by my father and little else.

            Mum brightens, though it’s a tad too bright. “ _So_.”

            “Mum.”

            “Do you know, you say multitudes with just that one word. Exasperation, affection, all that and more, you manage to infuse it in just that one word.”

            “Should I apologize?”

            “No. Never apologize for being yourself. I like you just as you are.”

            “You’re the _worst_ liar.”

            “Well, you _could_ call your poor elderly mother more frequently, if you’re taking suggestions.” I arch a brow, and Mum says, “So. Scorpius.”

            “You’ve known for awhile now, I don’t see why we need to discuss it at this exact moment.”

            “Because you’ve ignored every owl I’ve sent. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I know you. I’ve known you before you were even a you.”

            It’s true. She’s sent Switchley a few times. I might have…thrown owl treats at him at an unacceptable velocity. Reluctantly, I say, “I may have…been lax in replying to your messages.” I feel so good from today that I try being honest. “I didn’t want a lecture. I didn’t want disapproval, or disappointment. I know that’s coming. I know I’ll get it in spades. But I have been so impossibly happy that I wanted to ignore reality for a little while longer.”

            “I’m your mother. I’ll love you no matter what, or who, or how. It doesn’t mean I won’t have opinions.”

            “You? Opinions? I never.”

            Mum lays a hand on the table, choosing her words carefully. “I know that this is something you’ve wanted for a very long time. You have loved that boy since…I don’t even know. When did you know you loved him?”

            “Later than I should have.”

            “I knew when you were fifteen. You were miserable all summer because he was off on that trip with his father. You wouldn’t come out of your room, you wouldn’t talk to us, you just sulked. You only started to perk up when he was about to come home. When I took you to the Manor, you hugged him before you even said anything. And I couldn’t remember the last time you’d hugged anyone of your own volition. At least when we weren’t trying to avert crisis. That’s when I knew. I mean, I told myself at first that it was only a crush. But deep down, I knew.”

            “Were you upset?”

            “No.”

            “Mum.”

            “That word again. That one, loaded word.” Mum thinks about it, then admits, “I wasn’t happy. You have to understand, sweetheart—Scorpius’ grandfather nearly killed me. And his father—I know that you’ve only ever known the older, mellower Draco Malfoy, but I saw him at his very, very worst, and that is a hard thing to forget. Scorpius seemed like a sweet boy, he even seemed like a good influence on you, but still—he is a Malfoy. I’d like to tell you that a person’s name doesn’t mean anything to me, but…I am not a perfect person. None of us are. So yes, when I knew you’d developed feelings for him, I wasn’t happy.”

            “And now?”

            “Now.” Mum looks down, saying softly, “Now, now, now.”

            “You’re still not happy. I didn’t imagine you would be.”

            “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I’m…anxious. Do you know, you’re the only one of my kids I rarely worry about. Lily, my every waking moment seems touched by worrying about Lily. And if it wasn’t Lily, it was James. Even before the accident, he was so—gung ho. So very much a reckless mix of Potter and Weasley. I worried that he’d be hurt. Then he was hurt, and now I worry…he’s not doing well. He’s not doing well, and no matter what I do…”

            “James is going to be okay.”

            “Now who’s a terrible liar?”

            “He stayed here, you know. Overnight.”

            Mum says flatly, “He what?”

            “He—needed to have a chat about some things last night. So we…did that. Then it was late, and his flat is a catastrophe, so he slept here. The three of us had breakfast together this morning. Don’t look at me like that. If you don’t believe me, ask James.”

            Mum’s shoulders relax. “Did you really?” I nod, and Mum reaches across the table, taking my hand. “Sweetheart…you don’t know how glad I am to hear that. I’ve always, always wished…you and your brother were closer.”

            “We’re not moving in together, we just had a kebab one night.”

            “Something is better than nothing. I’m so glad, sweetheart. So glad.”

            “You were saying that you don’t worry about me?”

            Mum nods. She adds her other hand to mine. She traces her short thumbnail over the lines of my palm as she speak. “I haven’t had to worry about you. You’re so self sufficient. Never asked us for anything, found yourself a job, a home. You’re just ruthlessly independent. I love that about you. I admire that about you. So I haven’t worried. Only I’m worried now.”

            “Why?”

            “You don’t want to hear this. I know you don’t. You’ll tell me I’m being silly, or say that you’ve already thought about it, or that you know what you’re doing.”

            “Say it. Say it anyways.”

            Mum squeezes her thumbs into my palm. “You know it won’t last, love. You must know that, deep down.”

            I didn’t realize she would be this harsh. I pull back my hand. “Why would I know that?”

            “He was with Rose for seven years. Seven years, Albus—it can go by in the blink of an eye, but it’s also a long, long time. And he didn’t leave her. She broke up with him, when he asked her to marry him. He was ready to marry her. Then she breaks up with him, and a few weeks later he’s doing something entirely out of character with her cousin. Tell me, if you saw that scenario with any other person, what would you think?”

            “Scorpius isn’t just anyone—”

            “But if he was, sweetheart. Tell me, with all your terrible honesty, what you think the end of the story would be.”

            I gaze at my mother, then answer truthfully. “She would realize the error of her ways, and they would get back together after his little bicurious escapade.”

            Mum says, “I know it’s not pretty, and I know it’s hard, but I don’t like—I don’t like seeing you in a position where I know you’ll be hurt.”

            “Do you think I don’t know that he’ll leave me?”

            “Albus—”

            “I’m not a fool. I’m no one’s ideal mate. I’m bitter and secretive and I will hold a grudge until the heat death of the universe. Beyond that, I am a man, and that is obviously a difficult sell for someone who is kind and optimistic and loving and who’s only had vagina for the past seven years. He always told me Rose was the love of his life, and maybe she is. But he is the love of mine. And I would rather be seventy years old and sad that he chose her over me than seventy years old and hating myself because I was too cautious to even try. Because if there’s even a chance—if there is the smallest, slightest chance—it’s better than nothing. It’s better than not knowing. Don’t you think?”

            Mum drops her head. After a moment, she nods. “You present a compelling argument.”

            “But?”

            “But—you are twenty four years old. Soon you’ll be twenty five. When I was your age, I was married. James was on the way. My life had set into the path I needed it to be. None of you have—settled. I’m not a particularly traditional person, but there is that worry again. My worry that you’ll think you still have time—and then you don’t. How long will you give to this? How many years will he hold you back, when you could be finding the person who’ll love you for always?”

            I cross my arms. “Scorpius is not holding me back.”

            Mum sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

            “You did. Is it so unreasonable, that he might decide to stay?”

            “I just…I want you to be loved. I want you to be cherished, and adored, and to have someone take care of you.”

            I snort.

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” I murmur. “It’s fine.”

            “No, I know that look. Say it. Say whatever it is you want to say.”

            I don’t want to fight with my mother. But I don’t want to spend our lives tiptoeing around one another either. “I was thinking that I wished you’d had someone who could have done that for you.”

            Mum studies me, to the point that another man might squirm. But I am not easily cowed.            

            “You’re young,” Mum says. “So you think you know. But you don’t.”

            “All right.”

            “You think you know what’s happened between your father and I. You’ve only seen what you want to, to have this narrative that we have been unhappy. That’s not us.”

            “All right.”

            “Albus—do not.”

            I could stop. Stopping has never been my style. “Why didn’t you leave him?”

            Mum leans back, hissing. “Unbelievable. Albus—why would I leave your father?”

            “Because you could have had a better life.”

            “Who are you to judge that? Who are you to judge your father and I for the choices we’ve made? I love your father. I’m _in_ love with your father. He is my best friend. I would never leave him.”

            “You should have.”

            “No, I shouldn’t have—”

            I can’t stop. We started out amicable and it’s so abruptly veered into _this_ , and I can’t stop. “You should have. For us.”

            “Albus, this is—upsetting, and hurtful, and I would like you to stop. Why would you say something like that? Regardless of the problems you’ve had with your father, we’ve still been a family. He was there for you, he did his best—stop it, he did his best with what he had, and I love him for that. I would never leave him. He’s your father, and whatever this—cruel thing is you’re harbouring, you need to stop. Tell me what’s really going on. Tell me why you have this bizarre idea that I should have left your father. Tell me how any of this would have been better by splitting our family up for no reason.”

            “Let’s not—”

            “No, _let’s_. If you have something to say, Albus, just say it. Merlin knows you’ve never stopped before.”

            I rub my hands together, refusing to look her in the eyes. “August 14, 2015.”

            “What does that mean? Why should I know that?”

            “Mum,” I whisper.

            She shakes her head. Then I see her vision clear. Mum is very still for a moment.

            “You don’t know about that,” Mum says. “None of you kids know about that.”

            “I knew. I saw.”

            “No. That’s not possible.”

            “I was on the staircase. It was loud, so I came out to look. I saw.”

            I try to make myself small. I’ve never breathed a word of this to anyone. I told myself I’d take it to the grave. Only life is somehow different now, and I don’t feel like holding on to all these secrets.

            We sit here, over aware of one another, and the silence is electric.

            Mum is the one who breaks it. “It happened _once_ , Albus.”

            “All right—”

            “No, you listen to me. It happened once, and that was it. It never happened again, I would have never let it happen again—”

            “You apologized to _him_. He started crying, and you said that _you_ were sorry. And you stayed. Would you have stayed if it had been one of us?”

            “ _No_ , of course not—”

            “You would have taken us back. When he said he was sorry. But you know Dad and his apologies. They rarely stick.”

            Mum presses her lips together, then looks me in the eyes. “I know that when you’re hurt, you try and hurt the other person as hard as you can to take the focus off yourself. But this is _untouchable_. You trying to bring this up to hurt me is unacceptable. It’s shameful. You should be ashamed of yourself, and I hope you are.”

            “That’s fine. I can be ashamed of why I said it. But I cannot and will not be ashamed of saying that you should have left him. Because you are my mother, and I love you, and I wish your life had been better than it was.”

            Mum pushes herself up from the table, shaking her head. “When you realize how out of line you are right now, I expect an apology. You know where to find me.”

            She walks out of the room.

            After a second, I get up and go to the doorway. Mum is reaching into the bag of Floo powder over the mantlepiece.

            “Do you think he would have been a better father if there had been consequences?” I ask.

            Irritated, Mum says, “Albus—”

            “If you’d left him, if you’d told him, you don’t get us back until you see a mind healer, until you make any effort to make this better—do you think he would have changed?”

            Mum looks at me. “Do you know the worst thing about having children? They think they know you, but they don’t, and they use that ignorance as a tool to try and gut you.”

            Quietly, I reply, “I would have said the same thing about parents.”

            Mum shakes her head again and throws the powder in the fire. “Potter residence!” She steps inside and is gone.

 

When Scorpius comes home, I’m a glass of wine in, seated at the table in front of my food. By way of greeting, I say, “This has been a day of staggering highs and devastating lows.”

            “Hi,” he says, leaning down to kiss my mouth. I expect something longer, more intimate, especially after what happened at the Ministry, but this is little more than a peck. Scorpius goes to sit down across from me, shedding his robes and tossing them at the hook, where they fix themselves perfectly.

            I wait for him to respond to what I’ve said, but Scorpius is oddly quiet. Oh no. After Mum, I’m not sure if I can take another hit.

            “Everything all right?” I ask carefully.

            That seems to open a floodgate. Scorpius sits back, spreading his hands, and I immediately see that he’s properly angry. What have I done? “Oh, do I have a story for you.”

            “Should I offer a pre-emptive apology?”

            “No, not everything is about you.” Scorpius stops, stricken, then drops his head on the table. “That was mean,” he groans. “I’m not mean. I’m angry and it’s making me mean. I’m awful.”

            “Stop it. Sit up, tell your self absorbed boyfriend all your sorrows.”

            Scorpius sits back up, blushing. “All right. So, my job is a hellscape.”

            “I could have told you that.”

            “Yes, but it’s all the worse right now. So. So!” Scorpius shakes his head, eyes going hard. “You know it was insane there today.”

            “I did drop by the Ministry, yes.”

            I hope he’ll even acknowledge our tryst, but Scorpius says, “Well. Well! I run around like a chicken all day long, doing everything I’m asked—as always—and at the end of the day, Merrick calls me into his office and closes the door. He finally lets me in on what’s going on.” Scorpius takes a bite of his quinoa, then immediately reaches for the pepper. “Terrance Quarry and half his bloody office were arrested this morning!”

            Ohhh…no.

            “What?” I say, hoping he’s too busy being upset to see any admission of guilt on my face.

            “Apparently they’ve all been accepting bribes from these lobbying groups. I shouldn’t be surprised, Quarry has absolutely zero morals, for all his posturing. I never thought they’d actually catch him, though. I’ve been at the Ministry five years now. Five. I’ve done everything in my power to make housing safer for magical people. Meanwhile, he’s swimming in ill gotten gains to make the world a more dangerous place. Tell me how that makes any sense!”

            “It doesn’t—”

            “Exactly! Exactly. Do you know, Merrick says that Quarry is more likely than not going to Azkaban. Azkaban! Terrance Quarry, even with all his blood money. The Department is trying desperately to keep things quiet and cover up the damage before it hits the papers tomorrow. They’re shuffling people around like mad, trying to have everything in place before the public starts trying to have the Housing Minister fired.”

            “Are—they moving you?”

            “See, that’s why Merrick pulled me into his office. He wants me to go into Quarry’s department. Construction. He said he needed someone he can trust to work on re-establishing the public’s confidence in the system.”

            “Is that a lateral move, or—?”

            “It’s a promotion. He says in two years I could be a Junior Minister.”

            Good grief, the impossible has happened. Excited, I say, “When do you start?”

            Scorpius screws up his face. “Start?”

            “The new job. The promotion.”

            “You must be joking. I turned him down flat.”

            Uncomprehending, I stare at him.

            Scorpius continues talking, oblivious. “Only half the office was arrested, but everyone was fired. A lot of good, innocent people lost their positions, and I couldn’t stomach stealing someone else’s job. And this whole thing reeks of office politics. I think Terrance Quarry was targeted by someone, and I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but it all feels so underhanded. No, I will not be a part of that, thank you very much.”

            He stuffs a large spoonful of quinoa in his mouth and chews away.

            I hold the stem of my glass between my fore and middle finger, and I say nothing.

            After a few long seconds, Scorpius looks over at me. “What?”

            “Nothing,” I’m quick to say. I pick up my spoon and have a small bite.

            I hear nothing from him for a moment, then Scorpius says with incredulity, “Do you think I should have taken it?”

            “Honestly?”

            “You must be joking! Everyone at the Ministry wants to get a leg up on everyone else by being cutthroat, or control the fallout by placing blame where it shouldn’t be—and I’m supposed to benefit from that? I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

            “Okay. That sounds good.”

            “You can’t be upset with me about this.”

            “No one said anything about upset.”

            “But?”

            Blowing out a breath, I look at him. “But…you have worked harder than anyone else in that department. You’ve been a model employee for five years. The opportunity finally comes along to advance, something you’ve said you wanted—and then you turn it down? I just…don’t quite understand.”

            “I’ve only just told you why—”

            “You’ve told me half the office was arrested, and the rest lost their jobs. As if the rest of them weren’t guilty. You can’t tell me they didn’t know what was happening, or that they weren’t involved and the aurors simply didn’t have the evidence yet to charge them. The Ministry cleans out a rotten department, offers you an opportunity to rebuild it for the better, while finally acknowledging all your hard work, and—and all of a sudden you don’t want that?”

            “Of course I want to advance, but it has to be the right way—”

            “Has anyone there ever done it the right way? Do you honestly think any successful person in that organization has gotten that way without compromise?”

            Scorpius purses his lips, and says, “You don’t understand.”

            “No, I don’t. But it’s up to you, and if that’s your choice—then that’s your choice.”

            “There will be other opportunities.”

            “Will there?” Stirring my spoon through my food, I sigh. I don’t want to fight. Today was going so well until just a little while ago.

            I hope that Scorpius will try and defuse things, like he normally does. Instead, he says, “There _will_ be other chances for me to advance. It’s a matter of patience and hard work and time. Do you not believe that?”

            “Sure—”

            “No you don’t, I can see it in your face. Do you honestly want me to be like everyone else? Stabbing other people in the back for the tiniest seat at the table?”

            “It’s not black and white—”

            “What would you know, you’ve never even tried to have anything more.”

            He’s upset. He’s upset about work, and this isn’t like him. I don’t need to rise to the bait. “You and I are different.”

            “Yes, we ruddy well are. Look me in the eyes and tell me why there won’t be any more opportunities.”

            “I’m sure there will be—”

            “Look me in the eyes and tell me.”

            At this point, Scorpius is just trying to pick a fight. Scratching my forehead, I look across the table to him. “No one at the Ministry has ever been eager to give you a chance.”

            “They hired me—”

            “Your father pulled a favour—”

            “No, it was my doing, they took the chance on me.”

            “Okay.”

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            He doesn’t know. I always wondered, but looking at him now, I realize that Scorpius doesn’t know why his application was accepted, and I don’t want to be the one to ruin the illusion. “My mistake. I apologize.”

            “Why are you being such a doormat right now?”

            “Why are you being so aggressive?”

            “Aggressive? This is how you traverse every conversation in your life, but when I do it, it’s aggressive?”

            “What do you want me to say?” I ask helplessly. “I agree with you and you’re upset with me. I disagree and you’re upset with me. Do you want to leave? I don’t want to fight.”

            “If it means a fight, I want you to tell me what you really think.”

            “Please—”

            “Tell me what you really think.”

            Damn it. “I think it was foolish to decline. I think it might have been the opportunity of a lifetime for you. It could be the only time in your career that an entire office is lost, opening a position for you to finally move forward. They asked you to do it because they had to. It won’t happen again, especially after you turned them down. They were looking for a reason not to advance you, and you gave it to them.”

            “Hard work means something—”

            “Your name means more and you know it.”

            “That is—cynical, and untrue—”

            “You know it. You must know it, for all your demurrals, for all your pretending, you know that a Malfoy will never move higher than entry level in the Ministry.”

            “No, I _don’t_ know that. People like me there, they respect me—”

            “Scorpius—”

            “And I’m supposed to just torpedo all that by acting like the craven, grasping monster they expect?”

            “You can’t change their mind.”

            “I can, I have, I will. Why won’t you support me on this?”

            “Scorpius, I don’t care if you’re just a clerk—”

            “I care—”

            “I know you do, and that’s why I don’t like this, because you’re shooting yourself in the foot to keep yourself from getting what you want. You’re acting like the world gives out points for good behaviour, but it doesn’t.”

            “You wouldn’t know, you’ve never even tried.”

            “Okay,” I say, picking up my plate and walking to the counter. “That’s enough. You want to talk this in circles and get nowhere, but that doesn’t mean I have to play along.”

            “Are you kidding? You, back down from a fight? That would be a first.”

            I turn around, leaning back against the counter. “I don’t want to fight with _you_ —”

            “An impossible first, ladies and gentlemen. Albus Potter pretends to be mature. There’s a laugh.”

            “Jesus—”

            “Son of the most famous man in the world, everyone falling over themselves to give him opportunities, and what does he do? Locks himself away in a dusty office because he thinks he’s getting one over on his father. Splendid, splendid career choice.”

            My jaw is twitching. “Glad to see you have that gentle, caring Malfoy wit I’ve heard so much about.”

            “At least I try to be better, I try to be better than the people who came before—”

            “Do you feel better right now? Making your snide comments, trying to hurt me? Does that feel like you?”

            “Isn’t this the me that you want? Say the cruellest things so I can get what I want? That’s how I’m supposed to go through life, isn’t it?”

            “You’re being preposterous, and you know it.”

            “Better to be a Malfoy who tries to brighten his family name than a Potter who tries to disparage his.”

            “Great. You really got me there. Do you want to continue with your temper tantrum, or do you want to calm down?”

            Scorpius slams his hands down on the table. “I want some bloody recognition from someone for doing the right thing!”

            “But it wasn’t the right thing! You had an opportunity to do something good and you are pissing it away to, what? Prove you’re better than your father, his father? Prove you’re better than Quarry, that dangerous prick, nearly killing his daughter? You’re acting like someone is keeping score of all your deeds, but you’re the only one, and no one else gives a shit. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter to me if you’re good or bad, or whatever you might want to be. I just want whatever is going to make you happy, and in five years, ten years, thirty years, you are going to regret this decision and I don’t want you to live your life with regrets.”

            “What did you say?”

            “That I don’t want you to—”

            Scorpius pushes himself up from the table, studying me. “No. About Quarry. What did you say about his daughter?”

            Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. “Everyone knows about that—”

            Wide eyed, Scorpius says, “No. They don’t. I only know about it because my coworkers didn’t realize I was in the room. There are a handful of people who know that and there’s literally no reason why you should, so how do you know that?”

            My mind races through possible responses. What can I say to make him less angry?

            Before I can figure it out, Scorpius falls back. “Of course! Of _course_! The dragon atop his golden hoard! I bet you remember all the famous people’s dirty little secrets. Merlin’s tits, what am I even doing here? You must love it. All that secret knowledge you have, and you get to walk through the world, so smug, thinking you know everything about everyone else.”

            He turns his back to me, hooking his hands behind his neck.

            “Listen,” I say, “it’s my job. I see people’s medical information. It’s just a function of what I do, and I remembered about Quarry because I was so pissed at him, and it’s completely reasonable for me to hate a man who nearly killed his child because of greed. In fact, it’s a responsibility to hate a man like that—”

            Scorpius suddenly turns around. “What did you do about it?”

            “What?”

            His eyes narrow slightly. “What did you do?” I look away, and Scorpius says, “Bloody hell!”

            “Scorpius, I can explain—”

            “Explain?! People lost their jobs, Albus, people are going to jail—did you plan this? Was this all some plan to get me into that office? Did you think you were helping me?”

            “No! Don’t be ridiculous!”

            “What’s _wrong_ with you? I can do this by myself, I don’t need you mucking about, thinking you’re helping and just destroying everything instead! I can’t believe this—no. No, I can believe this, because this is classic you. You just decide what the right thing is, even though everyone including the Dark Lord could tell you it was wrong, and it doesn’t matter who gets hurt, because it’s just about what you want—”

            “He nearly killed his daughter—”

            “Like you care!” Scorpius yells. “Like you care about her! Her father is going to prison! Everyone is going to look at her knowing what her father did, ostracising her, making her life a living hell, because you decided you knew what was best. He nearly killed her, and now you’ve taken the rest of her life as well. Fantastic, Albus. Outstanding.”

            Cheeks hot, I shake my head. I grip the edges of the counter. I don’t want to yell at Scorpius. I’m on the edge of it, but I don’t want to do that to him. When I go too far, I go _too far_ , and I can’t do that to him, he already wants to leave me, I can’t give him an excuse.

            “I don’t know what I’m doing with you. I should have known better—”

            “Don’t.”

            “What? Don’t what?”

            “Use this as an excuse. If you want to go back to Rose, just say that you want to go back to Rose and do it. You don’t have to try to use this to hurt me. You can just say you want her instead and I’ll accept that.”

            “Go back to Rose? You must be joking. You sound like her right now. Do whatever you need to so you can get to the top, break a few eggs. Go back to Rose? You are Rose. No wonder I went to you after her, because you’re the bloody same person.”

            “A stopped clock is right twice a day,” I mutter.

            “You dare stand there and tell me what I’m doing wrong with my life, when you’ve never done a thing right with yours. You selfish bastard. It doesn’t matter who you hurt, just so long as you feel okay, so long as you have equilibrium in your own personal brand of misery. You and whatever is wrong with you is not my fault, and I’m not going to let you and your pessimism drag me down. You are the most selfish man I’ve ever met, Albus Potter. I don’t know why I ever thought otherwise.”

            He turns around, going to grab his robes. I don’t say anything, chewing my lip. I’m not going to yell. I’m not going to beg. If he wants to go, then he can go.

            Scorpius turns to me, snapping, “Say it.”

            “Say what?”

            “Whatever cruel, terrible thing is just on the tip of your tongue. You always need the last word, and you’re going to wait until I’m at the door to say it, but I’m not letting you have it. Say it now, and say it to my face.”

            I shake my head, crossing my arms. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            “That would be a fucking first. Just say it.”

            “Would it make you happier if I did?”

            “It would, actually. I need to know how terrible of a prick you are.”

            I keep shaking my head. He doesn’t want this. But he says he does. Quietly, I say, “You’ll regret leaving me because we’re too well matched. I accept that I’m the most selfish man you’ve ever met. But at least I know it. I don’t pretend, not like you.”

            “Get off it—”

            I look at him and say steadily, “You are the most selfish man I’ve ever known. You act like you care about other people, but you don’t. Working for the Ministry has never been about helping other people. It’s been about making yourself feel good. It’s about making the rest of the world try to recognize that you’re a good person, that you’re better than your forebears, but you are a Malfoy through and through. It’s about appearances only.”      

            “That’s preposterous—”

            “You’ll never help anyone at the Ministry. You know you won’t rise any higher than you are now, but you stay because you think it makes you look like a good person. That if you act the martyr, if you follow the rules, people will notice, and they’ll change their minds about you. They never will. Your grandfather was a murderer, and his father, and his father’s father, and if you think you’re going to change that in a single lifetime, you’re deluded. No one’s watching, Scorpius. No one cares. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if you acted the part. People will hate you for being a Malfoy no matter what you do. And I see you wanting to argue, saying that it’s important, what you do. It’s not. You’ve never, not in five years, directly helped anyone. You could have. It would have been easy. All you had to do was take all that wealth you’ve inherited, all that blood money, and put it towards some good. And people would have said that you were just trying to buy a reputation, but it wouldn’t have mattered to the people whose houses you built, or the children who had roofs over their heads. If you wanted to help people, you could have. But you’re only concerned with your name and perceptions, and so you’ll stay at the Ministry until you die, never having done a good thing, never having gotten what you wanted. And that’s sad for everyone, but that’s what happens when you’re selfish.”

            I wait for Scorpius to walk out. To slam the door after himself.

            It takes a moment, but he does.


	18. Chapter 18

When Hugo opens the door, he says, “I am _popular_ this morning.” He walks away. “Join me! I’ll toast you a bagel. Have you ever used a toaster? They’re brilliant! Mum always told me they were, but I never believed her. Shows what I know.”

            I shut the door after myself. “I can’t stay long,” I say, having a look around the flat. There are protest signs propped up against the wall, a stack of flyers on the table. That and a whole pile of books on Mongolia. “I have to get to work.”

            “It’s a good thing I’m an early riser.” Hugo is busying himself about the kitchen, dropping a bagel in a toaster. “I have butter, some of the jam Mum’s assistant makes—”

            “Butter’s fine,” I answer, taking a seat. I watch Hugo move around the kitchen, as graceful as ever. It certainly wasn’t magic that made him this way. It was always just him. “Are you planning a trip?”

            “Sorry?”

            I nod towards the sitting room. “Either you’re planning on becoming the last of the khans, or you’re going sightseeing in Ulaanbaatar.”

            “Right. Am I taking a trip,” Hugo says, more of a murmur to himself. He stands over the toaster, and shrugs. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

            “You, indecisive? Call the healers, we have a medical and existential emergency.”

            Hugo blows out a breath, turning to look at me. “Everyone wants me to stay here and…fight the good fight.”

            “Yes. How will they ever get by without Hugo, saviour of Squibs?”

            He grins, dropping his head. “See, this is why I need you around. Whenever I start thinking too highly of myself, you’re here to puncture my ego. If we’d been Romans, you’d have been whispering _memento mori_ in my ear.”

            “Funny how in that scenario, you’re the emperor and I’m the slave.”

            “It’s simply the natural order of things.” I snort, and the bagel pops out of the toaster. Hugo sets about buttering it. “Before all this happened, Mongolia was the next place. I’d been thinking about it, but I hadn’t really dived in. The last few weeks, I’ve really thrown myself into trying to take a stand. Do something good with this nonsense. I just don’t know if I’m suited to do it until I die. The world is a very big place. And England is so incredibly small.”

            He sets the bagel in front of me and drops onto a chair. Picking it up, even though I’ve already eaten, I say, “You could do both.”

            “Could I, though? The people who are in it…they are _in_ it. Disappearing for three months to research my latest book would likely be seen as a betrayal. But the thought of never traveling again… Albus, that’s where my heart’s always been.”

            “I think you should do what makes you happy. If anyone can do both, it’s you.” He smiles crookedly, and I needle, “Future Minister.”

            Hugo groans, slumping in his seat. “Don’t even start on that. It doesn’t just need to be Weasleys and Potters reaching for the top, you know. There’s thousands of other people out there.”

            Chewing on my bagel, I ask, “Have you heard anything else? From the aurors?”

            Hugo lets out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know what kind of department your father thinks he’s running, Albus, but…there’s nothing. It’s like whoever did this doesn’t even exist. Some aurors came by here the other day, to ask if I’d seen or heard anything suspicious. I tried to get them to tell me if they knew anything, but they obviously didn’t. The whole thing is a joke.” Hugo shakes his head and says, “The only positive seems to be that doing this to me was enough to keep the bastard who did this happy. They haven’t tried to do this to anyone else that I know of.”

            “We’re really reaching at straws when it comes to this whole thinking positive thing, aren’t we.”

            “I don’t know about you, but I’m doing my best. I mean, I’m happy to have this thing to fight for. It’s all a real eye opener. And sure, I can write my books and travel and be my usual self obsessed self, but in the end…it’s not as rewarding as this.” Hugo rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m unironically using the word ‘rewarding’. The shame. Anyways. It’s rare that I ever see you here so early, and by rare I mean never.”

            I shrug, looking at the table instead of him. “Maybe I just wanted to see my favourite cousin.”

            “Nothing going on? Nothing wrong?”

            “No. Why would there be?”

            “So everything is good. You have no complaints.”

            “No. Should I?”

            “Do you really want to be this stubborn your whole life?”

            “What do you mean?”

            Hugo slouches even lower in the chair, letting out an exasperated roar. “Typical.” He straightens back up and says, “I’ve been dropping hints ever since you knocked on the door that you’re not the only person I’ve seen this morning. I’ve practically been bludgeoning you with it, and you are so _obtuse_ —”

            “What are you talking about—”

            “Fuck me blind, Albus Severus, and there’s a phrase I never thought I’d use. Scorpius showed up here in the middle of the night in an absolute _state_. He only left here twenty minutes ago. I’m not sure how you didn’t pass one another on the street.”

            I stare at Hugo. “He was here?”

            Hugo nods emphatically. “Yes, thank you, he was.”

            “He was upset.”

            “That’s an understatement.”

            “Telling you that I’m the world’s worst boyfriend and that he was going back to your sister, presumably.”

            “You are such a _tit_. No! Of course not! He was rambling about work, and being a Malfoy, and on and bloody on, and then he started _crying_ , like I know what to do about that, because you two had a fight and he felt terrible.”

            “He what?”

            “Do you two talk?” Hugo bursts out. “Do you ever communicate, like, at all? Go back to Rose? You idiot—he was worrying himself sick this morning about how to apologize to you, even though I’m sure you had to be the instigator of all this, despite what he said.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Hugo screws up his face. “What is it with you people? Once your genitals become involved it’s like you lose what little sense the heavens gave you.”

            “So—he doesn’t want to break up with me?”

            Hugo looks around. He picks up the first thing he can find—a chair cushion—and pelts it at me. “Tit! Tit tit tit—”

            “All right! Christ, I get it!”

            “Do you? Do you really? Because if I have to sit through the two of you being sad sacks about one another on a continuous basis, I’ll fucking puke. I’m not playing middleman. I’m not the man you talk to when you’re not talking to one another. I have too much on my plate to deal with your drama.” Hugo crosses his arms, glaring at me.

            I rub my hands together. “So…he’s sorry?”

            “I swear, if I still had the capability, I would hex your face off. Do not ask me, ask him. I’m not getting in the middle of this. Don’t come around here moping. Go talk to him.”

            “I have to work.”

            “Not this _instant_ , you jackass. I thought you were insufferable when you were landing your cock in every Tom, Dave, and Mahmoud, but this is so much worse.”

            I fiddle with the remains of my bagel. “Well all right then,” I murmur.

            “Can we talk about something else, or have you gotten what you want from me?”

            “We can talk about whatever you like.”

            “Then do you want to hear about the work Rose has been doing with me?”

            “Huh,” I say, “look at the time.”

 

At a quarter past ten, my phone vibrates. I take it out, and my heart bounces a bit when I see that it’s Scorpius.

            Unfortunately, his message starts with, ‘I have to cancel lunch today.’ Not great. But it goes on to say, ‘Only because work is insane. I want to talk to you quite badly to make amends. May I come by tonight?’

            I chew on my smile, then type back, ‘Tonight is a long way off, but I suppose. I have my own apologies to make. Looking forward to seeing you.’

            I put away the phone, and try to get back to organizing.

            Like I told Suzette, it’s only five more months. Hypothetically, that should be manageable. I’ve gotten through the last two and a half years well enough. I’ve kept my head down, done my job to a relentless best, and gotten a smug superiority out of being the best employee in an office I’m not even that much a part of.

            Things are different now.

            I don’t want to be here. Even with putting Suzette absolutely and utterly in her place yesterday, it doesn’t feel like I’ve won any battles. I’m still in this little cave I carved for myself, making sure I’m as isolated as possible.

            It’s not like I want to work around other people. Or _with_ other people, Nimue forbid. It’s only that being in this office has become stifling of late.

            The world keeps intruding. Rebecca and her brother. Sian Tolliver. My brother and all his issues. Fucking Lily. Hugo, proving to be vulnerable for the first time in his life. Scorpius, my wonderful, miraculous Scorpius. This monster, whoever they are, attacking the people around me.

            Eric Golightly, who haunts my dreams. Fatima Gundersen, who has yet to make an appearance but should.

            They don’t say those names at the rallies. Easier to fixate on a son of privilege than two people who everyone chose to disbelieve. Hard to champion a man who’d kill himself rather than be a Squib, and an old woman who quietly drank herself to death over the years.

            I’m alone in here, and I might be the dragon on the golden hoard, but it’s like I’ve just noticed there’s a chain pinning my leg to the floor of my lair.

            I skim through all this information, and it means so little. Except for when I see something valuable. Then I remember being in that room with Sian, out of control, destroying something in him I can’t even describe.

            I try not to think of where he is now. Whatever Mr. Malfoy did with him, I don’t think any of us will ever see him again.

            For all my arrogance, I’m as bad as the rest. I’ve betrayed the confidence of people who didn’t even know I exist. I have destroyed lives. Scorpius was right. I’ve made sure that little girl’s life is a hell. The pain from a broken limb will fade. The heartache of losing a father to Azkaban? That will stay with her until she dies.

            Wow. I am actually the worst.

            I put my face in my hands, sighing. Can’t go back. Have to go forward. There’s no choice.

            I look around the office at all my neat little piles, and something seems spoiled. And I think it might be me.

            Okay. Enough. I can sit here feeling sorry for myself, but—that isn’t what I’m going to do. It’s not what Scorpius would want me to do. I can be better for him. I can be a better man.

            How in the hell do I do that?

            The first thing that comes to mind makes me cringe. But once it’s cropped up, there doesn’t seem a chance of dismissing it.

            So I pull out a fresh piece of paper and a pen.

 

_Dear Mum,_

_I want to apologize for what I said to you yesterday. I won’t only say that I want to, I’m going to actually do it. So: I am sorry. Unreservedly, absolutely. I hope that you can find it in yourself to forgive me, but if it takes a while, I’ll understand._

_Both you and James pointed out a quirk of mine, or shall we say character defect. When someone says something to hurt me, intentionally or not, I hurt them twice as hard to make them stop what I feel like is an attack on me. Imagine my displeasure at realizing James was right about something._

_I understand your reservations about Scorpius, at least on the surface. It is one of my greatest fears, that he’ll leave me for Rose. How could I not worry about that? Only I’ve chosen to set that fear aside. Most of my life, I’ve chosen to be solitary rather than face the possibility of rejection. With him, I have chosen to take this chance, because I knew that whatever time I had with him would be the happiest of my life. In that regard, at least, I’ve proven myself right._

_You said that  you worried I’d waste my time with him. That I was forestalling some other more lasting relationship. You’ll say that I’m young, that I am naïve, but I know with certainty that there will be no other relationship in my life more important than the one I have with Scorpius. He has been my closest companion for more than half my life. I met him at the same age Dad met you, and I’m at the age when you had James. Can you say that you were too young then to know who you wanted to be with? It has never occurred to me that there would be another relationship besides him; it didn’t occur to me that there would be any relationships at all. I was quite convinced that I would be alone, in a sense, until I died. To have anyone is a gift for me, but for it to be him is another matter entirely. I could not play my usual tricks this time. I could not isolate myself. I needed to do this, and I hope someday you’ll understand._

_Again, I am so sorry for what I said about you and Dad. You’re right—I’ll never know the whole story. I’ll never know the version of Dad that you know, and I’ll never know the version of you that wasn’t my mum. This is not a concession on my part, and I’m not saying that Dad shouldn’t have done anything differently. I wish that he had gotten help, for your sake and ours. It is not my place, however, to tell you who you should and shouldn’t love, or what you should and shouldn’t do with your life. You are an adult, and if I’m going to ask you to respect my choices, I have to be prepared to respect yours._

_Above all, I shouldn’t have brought up that night. At least, not in that context. If we were ever to talk about it, it shouldn’t have been in an argument, your foolish son trying to wound you. I’m ashamed, as I should be. It’s one of those silent hurts you and I have both carried, along with many others, that perhaps we should discuss someday, but when I’ve progressed beyond the barest minimum of maturity. If it’s a thing that you’ve made peace with, that you don’t want to discuss, I’ll accept that. Only I wish someday that we would._

_Part of me wishes you’d burn this letter after reading it. It’s not in my nature to be this exposed, except I’ve found that spending a lot of time with someone whose goodness is intrinsic is distressingly forcing me to be a better man. So you may do with this letter as you please._

_I love Dad, for all his faults, and I wish things had been different. I love Lily, begrudgingly. I love James. I might even like him, given enough time and mountains of patience. But most of all, I love you. You are unabashedly my favourite, the one I wish I was more like, the one I wish I could impress. I love you Mum, and I know you love me._

_Your strange, maladjusted son,_

_Albus_

            I reread it and cringe. It’s emotionally honest and very, very antithetical to everything about me. I scratch my fingers through my hair a few times, then fold the letter up and put it in an envelope. I write my mother’s name and address on it, then put the envelope in my bag. I’ll go to an owlery on my lunchbreak.

            The world has another thing coming if it thinks I’m writing another one of _those_.

 

I’m less than an hour from getting out of here for the weekend when my mobile starts vibrating again. I pull it out, and it’s a pleasant surprise. Scorpius again.

            I answer, setting it to my ear. “You couldn’t wait?”

            “Hi,” Scorpius says. “Hi.”

            I frown. “You have to cancel.”

            “No. No, it’s not that. I want to see you, I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

            “But?”

            “But…something’s happening in the next little bit and if I didn’t tell you now, it would likely be over by the time I saw you, and I don’t know if you’d be upset with me that I hadn’t told you sooner.”

            “You’re making very little sense.”

            Scorpius sighs and says, “Do you know what a rental block is?”

            “Sounds like a building.”

            “No, it’s—it’s this terrible thing that only went through fairly recently, and I hate it, it’s obscene, but I’ve been too busy to complain about it because I’ve just been happy—you know I’ve been happy, don’t you, please tell me you know—”

            “Scorpius. Finish your sentence.”

            “Right! Right, so it’s this egregious piece of legislature meant to penalize the poor, particularly those who rent. It basically says that if a landlord can prove a renter has a history of skipping rent and shows no sign of stopping, that person can be evicted and banned from renting any property for the next year. They say it’s meant to protect building owners, because if you can successfully bring a rental block against a tenant, then you’re able to recoup some of the lost revenue from the Ministry.”

            “Wait. Let me get this straight. This only applies to magical properties, right?”

            “No, that’s the thing. They don’t want to foist the problem off on Muggles, so there’s a supervisory spell that tips off the Ministry any time the person under block tries to rent. Anywhere.”

            “That’s—despicable! Where are they supposed to stay? If they weren’t able to home own before, where are they supposed to go now?”

            “Yes, precisely. It’s unconscionable, and it’s just going to add to the homeless population, and Albus, don’t get me started.”

            I shake my head. “Wait. Why are you telling me about this?”

            I hear him sigh again. “They’ve just placed a rental block on Lily, effective immediately. It means her landlord can put her things on the street, and if she puts up a fight then the aurors will be called.”

            At that, I roll my eyes. “Please. Lily skates on any problem she encounters. The last thing the aurors are going to do is put their hands on the boss’ daughter.” Scorpius doesn’t say anything. I wait a moment, then say, “Are you there?”

            “Here’s the thing. I’ve been keeping a bit of an eye on this—I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure you’d be interested, and I should have said something sooner, and I’m sorry for that. When it became more likely that they were actually going to pass it, I…sort of ambushed your father.”

            I stare across the room. “You what?”

            “I know the Ministry inside and out, I know the secret ways he goes through to get out of here. So the other day I tried to talk to him about it, and besides telling me to stay out of family business, he made it fairly clear that—they knew this was coming. And they’re okay with it.”

            “Who’s they? I’m sorry, do you mean both my parents are okay with Lily sleeping on the streets for a year?”

            “It’s entirely possible I misunderstood—”

            “For fuck’s sake.”

            “I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t my place—”

            “I’m not upset with you, I’m upset at—Jesus. I just wrote my mother a very conciliatory letter, do you know that? If you’d told me two hours ago, I wouldn’t have sent it.” Tough love fucking indeed. I know Mum’s at her wit’s end, but _Jesus_.

            “Sorry.”

            “So they’re going there right now. Right now.”

            “Yes.”

            “And Lily doesn’t give up anything easily, so the aurors will definitely be called.” I lean back in my seat, thinking. “Shit. Well, at least I’ll know what people mean when they ask tomorrow if I’ve seen the paper.”

            “I did try to change this, but it’s not my department, and they told me that if Harry Potter wasn’t going to intervene, then I should just go back to my cubicle.”

            “Scorpius, let’s be fair. My sister hasn’t paid rent on any place she’s lived in for years. She’s a menace. Her landlord was within his rights to do anything he liked to get her out of the building so he could rent it to someone who’d actually hold up their end of the bargain. Lily refused to get a job, refused to do anything to help herself out. Any guilt you might be feeling, while a testament to your character, is wildly misplaced.”

            There’s another long silence.

            Exhaling, I say, “What?”

            “Nothing!”

            “What is it? Do you think _I_ should do something about it? Me? Do you remember what a disgusting, vomiting mess I was after she nearly killed my cat?”

            “I do remember, of course I do.”

            “So why are you telling me about this?”

            “Well—I never expected you to bring James into the house after a crisis, but it happened. I thought the same might extend to Lily.”

            “James never tried to _kill my cat_.”

            “Okay. All right.”

            “Don’t do that.”

            “Do what?”

            “Sound disappointed in me.”

            “I’m not!”

            “Why should I do anything for Lily? What is it that you want me to do? Bring her into my home? Give her money? What is it that you want me to do?”

            “Nothing. I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to.”

            “But you want me to want to do something.”

            “I didn’t mean for this to be an argument. I don’t want to fight with you—we haven’t even properly made up after the last one—”

            “If I go over there—if I make sure that she’s at least okay—would that make you happy?”

            “Albus, I’m not asking you to—”

            I bite off, “Would—it make—you happy?”

            After a few seconds, Scorpius says, “Yes. It would.”

            “Then fine. I’ll go over there after work. Don’t bother going to the house; Merlin knows how long it will take me to extricate myself from whatever dramatics she’s engaging in.”

            “I can go with you—”

            “I’ll call you when I’m finished with Lily.”

            I hang up before saying anything else. I actually bite my tongue. Giving the phone a few hard shakes, I toss it down on the desk, then cover my eyes and just groan for awhile.

 

The last thing I want to do on a Friday evening is attend to Lily’s latest temper tantrum. Nonetheless, here I am, a block from her building, grimacing and unhappy and about to stick my nose in where I’d rather not.

            Yes, I know what will happen to Lily if she’s kicked out. She’ll use it as an excuse to immediately dive back into the drinking and drugs, if she hasn’t already. But Lily is always looking for an excuse, any excuse, and no matter what I do here, she’ll relapse regardless. I’ve done this too many times to believe otherwise.

            I turn the corner and—yeah, there it is. Out front of Lily’s building are two aurors, being screamed at by my sister. Multiple people are carrying her possessions out through the front door and depositing them on the kerb. Passersby don’t seem to notice what’s happening, under some sort of Muggle-repelling spell.

            I should call James. But I can’t call James, because I’m less than two days out from him almost topping himself. I can’t put anything else on his shoulders.

            Theoretically, I should be able to handle this. I’ll be twenty five years old in a month.

            Then again, what’s _this_? What do I think I’m going to do here?

            I don’t know, but Lily’s really working herself up to a fit, and I realize that someone’s taking pictures.

            “Seen the papers, Albus?” I mutter to myself as I walk down the street. “Did you see your sister making an absolute mess of herself in front of the nation again?”

            The closer I get, the less impressed I am by Lily’s latest performance. She’s dressed in her flouncy, summer child clothes, but her face is bright pink from shouting, and she’s pointing in the aurors’ faces, telling them what they’ll be doing to support themselves after Dad hears about this. She doesn’t notice the reporter recording the whole thing on his mobile, taking notes with his wand.

            “And you’ll have to _really_ get in there, I mean _really_ , with your wands, and maybe even soap, because old people get shit in those wrinkles, and you’ll be cleaning those arses until death, you impudent, miserable little—”

            One of the aurors catches sight of me. The expression on his face is surprising but welcome. It says, _you’ve put up with this for over twenty years_?

            Lily snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you? Let’s see you nod off when my father hears about this! You’ll be a lot more fucking attentive then!” One of the people carrying out a pile of boxes drops them heavily on the ground, and Lily turns around. “Break one thing and so help me they won’t find the parts—” She catches sight of me. After a second, Lily snaps, “What are _you_ doing here?”

            I ask the man, “Is this the last of it?”

            “Almost,” he says, casting my sister a suspicious look before heading back inside.

            “I told you!” Lily yells at me. “I told you I needed help, but no, you didn’t believe me—”

            “I told you to get a job, but no, you were too good for that. Cry me a river, Lil.” I whistle at the reporter, walking over to him. “You.”

            He’s young. My age, maybe younger. “Mr. Potter,” he says eagerly, “anything to say about—”

            I look right into his camera and say, “What I want you to do is stick your tongue directly up my anus, and give it a swirl. Because the only words you’ll be saying after I’m done with you will be tainted with my shit.” I step closer, and he startles back. “Piss off then.”

            I turn back around, and one of the aurors says, “Mr. Potter—”

            Waving my hands, I say, “Don’t worry, one of the Chosen One’s children has already made enough of a fuss. I’m just here to get her away from the scene of the crime.”

            Lily stamps her foot. “This is _my_ home!”

            “Well, it would appear that squatter’s rights have been repealed, so you’re out of luck.” I catch sight of something. Eyes bulging, I say, “Is that _Nan’s_ bag?”

            As I stride over to it, Lily says, “It’s mine—”

            I pick up the battered old carpet bag, shaking it at her. “This went to Victoire in the will. Did you steal this before, during, or after the funeral? Really think about the realities in that last question and continue telling me you have no shame.” I withdraw my wand, and shrink all of her possessions.

            “No!” Lily yelps, leaping forwards.

            I wait for her to hex me, but nothing happens. “Where’s your wand?”

            The female auror holds it up. “We had to disarm your sister for everyone’s safety. We’ll return it once she’s left the property.”

            “You can’t do this!” Lily insists. “I live here, this is my home—”

            “Not anymore!” a cheerful voice says. A large, balding man sets down an overloaded suitcase, then puts his hands on his hips. “That’s it. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, Lily, but it’s been pure hell. God help the next person who tries taking a chance on you.”

            Lily lunges towards him, and I grab her by the wrist, holding her back. “You little toad! You’re an informer, is what you are! I’ll see you in court, so help me!”

            I reduce the rest of her things while she’s threatening him, and levitate them all into Nan’s bag. Lily clearly has no concept of premeditation, as she’s being quite descriptive in front of two aurors and her potential victim, not to mention the press. Ignoring her, I shoulder the bag.

            “I’ll take that,” I tell the female auror.

            She looks at me dubiously, but passes me Lily’s wand. “She’s not allowed within a hundred steps of the building. She’ll get quite a shock if she tries.”

            “I hope you mean a literal one, because at this point she’s more difficult to train than a dragon.”

            Lily’s really reaching a fever pitch. “My father will ruin you, do you understand?! You crossed the wrong fucking family, you shiny-headed little peon!” I try to pull her away, but Lily snaps, “Get your fucking hands off me! I’m not going anywhere! Dad will fix this—”

            Squeezing her arm, I hiss, “Dad knows. He’s not coming.”

            “Shut up! He’ll fix this!”

            “Okay, fine, we’ll go ask him to fix it.”

            Lily screams, “ _No_ —” as I apparate us away.

            The plan is to go to Mum and Dad’s. I don’t want to deal with Lily. This spoiled princess act has never been cute, and now that she’s an adult it’s even less so. Mum clearly knew this was coming. This is why she asked me yesterday not to give Lily any money. Mum and Dad knew, but she’s their daughter and they can tell her to her face. I just need to get rid of her.

            We’re travelling at speed, and I can almost taste the destination when we’re abruptly torn away in the opposite direction.

            No—oh no, what is this, what _is this_ —

            Lily’s trying to take us back and I’m trying to take us forward and we’re going to be fucking killed if she doesn’t stop, what the hell is wrong with her?!

            So I do the only thing I can do. I pull us out as quickly as I’m able, no regards for where we might end up or if we’re seen.

            Lily’s still fighting me, and I yank her out of the stream.

            We drop out of the air, meters above the ground. I hit the road with a yell, somehow rolling to avoid injury. Behind me, I hear Lily shriek.

            For a moment, things are quiet.

            Groaning, I get on my feet, then I push myself up. Lily’s doing the same, staggering.

            I stare at her, then I scream, “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You could have killed us!”

            “You were kidnapping me—”

            “You stupid cow, we could have been splinched! We could have apparated into the middle of the ground! Do you have no sense of bloody self preservation?”

            Lily is heaving in breaths, her hands pulled into fists. “How dare you—how dare you try and apparate me without my permission?! Dad was coming, he was going to fix things—”

            “No! Dad and Mum told me to let you rot, do you understand that? They said you were on your own, that you need to make your own bloody decisions, so they knew this was coming, and you can’t be so stupid as to not realize that!”

            “That’s not true! You’re just bitter!” I start to laugh, turning away from her. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. “You’re bitter and ugly because they’ve always loved me more! Everything I’ve done, they love me more because you’re not worth loving at all!”

            I’m staring across the street. We’ve landed on a small city street somewhere old. Narrow lanes, brick buildings. It would be fine, of course it would, save for the decals in the windows. The windows that people are starting to look through at us.

            I yelp when Lily shoves me. “Are you listening to me? Who gave you the right to come in, after you refused to help me, to kick me out of my own home?”

            “Lily—”

            “You’re all against me! No one believes in me! I’ve worked so hard, and no one will give me a chance! I just need to get on my feet and I’ll show all of you! You’ll regret this, you’ll regret all of this!”

            Keeping an eye on the curtains drawing back, I reach for Lily. “We need to leave,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I’m able.

            She tears her hand away from mine. “No! I’m not going anywhere! Give me my things!”

            “Lily, this place isn’t safe. We need to leave.”

            “Not safe? Look at it! The whole place is probably under the National bloody Trust! Now give me my fucking things and leave me alone!”

            “Lily! We have to leave!”

            “No! You’re just going to take me to Mum and Dad’s and I’m not going—”

            I grab her by the shoulder, yanking her around. I point to the decal in one of the closest windows. “Look at that. What is that?”

            “Look at what?”

            “What is that right there?”

            “The sticker?” Lily says incredulously. “What about it? It’s just a Union Jack heart—”

            “It’s _not_ just a Union Jack heart, you moron, it’s the logo of the bloody BNP, and it’s all around us, so stop being an idiot and let’s leave.”

            Lily screws up her face. “What’s the BNP?”

            I gaze at her, then burst out, “I’m just as Indian as you, Albus! We absolutely have similar life experiences and knowledge because our skin colour is practically the same. Oh, I’m Lily, I’m content going through life completely fucking ignorant of anything a person with a shade darker than bone could tell you!”

            She shoves me. “What are you going on about?”

            “Oi!” someone yells, and I catch my breath. “He bothering you, miss?”

            Three men, a little older than me, have come out onto the street. They’re clean cut, in their button up shirts, their khakis, and I don’t know if they think they look regular, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it.

            “Yes!” Lily says, and pushes past me.

            “Lily,” I hiss.

            She walks towards them. “This man took my purse and now he won’t give it back.”

            Oh God.

            The man in the middle is the tallest, with dark hair cut short and black eyes. He starts walking forward, and the worst of it is that he has a friendly face. “Yeah? That true, wog? You steal this woman’s purse?”

            I do quick arithmetic. Lily’s in more danger if they know we’re related. I have her wand. She can’t defend herself. I can, if it comes down to it.

            “Just a mistake,” I say, quickly slipping Nan’s bag off my shoulder. I set it on the ground, then step back, hands raised. “We’re fine. Just a misunderstanding.”

            Lily’s back is to me, but she’s unmoving and I know she’s looking at the man with black eyes.

            “What did you call him?” she asks. No, just shut up, shut your mouth.

            The man smiles at her. “Just a wog. Wouldn’t want to get too obscene in front of a lady, would I?”

            “What’s a wog?” He smirks, and Lily looks back at me. “Albus, what’s a wog?”

            “What, you know him now?” asks the man.

            I shake my head at her. “This is all just a misunderstanding, miss. You should probably take your bag and go.”

            Lily gazes at me.

            Then she turns back and says, “No, I want you to explain to me what you just called my brother.”

            Fuck me in my fucking kidneys, what is in her head? It can’t be a brain, because brains usually have the barest sliver of self awareness.

            The men all start to laugh. “Brother?” says one of them.

            “This your sister, mate?” the dark eyed man asks.

            “Why wouldn’t he be my brother?” Lily insists.

            “You’re white, princess.”

            “She’s adopted,” I say, trying to joke in the hopes of defusing things. “Still a wonder the agency gave her to us. Listen—my friend and I were just leaving—”

            The dark eyed man shakes his head. “This lady said you stole her purse, darkie. Wouldn’t be proper to let you go before the police got here. Maybe we should perform a citizen’s arrest.”

            Lily’s shoulders tense through her thin clothes. Oh no. “For one—he _did not_ steal my purse. Two—apologize for calling my brother that.”

            “Calling your brother what?”

            “For calling him—”

            “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, princess, but your ‘brother’ seems to have more sense than ten of you put together. He knows what’s about to happen here. And you can either take a walk, or you can watch while we have ourselves a Paki chase.”

            I swallow as Lily stands her ground. “Lily,” I murmur. “Please leave. Just go. It’s okay.”

            She’s so thin. She’s going to get destroyed if she doesn’t get out of here.

            Lily says, “You absolute cretin. We’re not Pakistani, we’re Indian. And if you’re going to attack him, you might as well attack me too. Not just because I’m Indian, but because I’ve ridden big black cocks that would put your tiny Anglo noodle to shame. So get fucked.”

            She turns her back on him and walks towards me.

            The man is charging across the street, so fast that I can’t even grab Lily to apparate her away.

            But Lily spins around, swinging her knee up so abruptly that I hear the tear of fabric. She drives her knee upwards so viciously into the man’s crotch that he jumps.

            He hits the ground with both hands cradling his bits, and my sister is suddenly beating the shit out of him.

            She stamps on his face with a shockingly solid shoe, and I hear something crunch. Then she’s kicking him over and over. “Don’t you EVER talk to my brother like that!” Lily screams, stamping on the man’s ribs. “Don’t you ever, EVER—” His friends try to cross the street, but all of a sudden Lily has a brick in her hand that she’s holding threateningly over the man. “I’ll fucking kill him! I’ll KILL HIM if you don’t stay away from my brother!”

            They step backwards, wide eyed.

            We’re all of us frozen as Lily feverishly kicks the man in his face, his hands, his ribs, screaming all the while. “You don’t SPEAK to my brother, you don’t LOOK at my brother, you don’t ever, EVER touch him, never! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll KILL YOU!”

            Lily pulls the brick higher, and I finally snap out of it. I lunge forward, grabbing her wrist.

            Of course, that’s when the police car comes around the corner. When my sister is about to brain a man, and I’ve got my hand on the weapon.

            Potters. We do nothing in half measures.

 

We sit silently, side by side, in a very small police station. So small it only has the one cell, and apparently it’s already been occupied by a man who tried to murder his mother. Which means Lily and I are seated against a wall in the middle of the nick, our hands zip tied behind our backs.

            At this point, I’m considerably less worried than before. Was the responding officer the dark eyed man’s cousin? He was, yes. And that wasn’t fantastic. But as soon as I walked into the station, I told the woman at reception, “McGonagall.” That’s our safety word of the year. If a witch or wizard is arrested by Muggles, you say that to the people in charge and it gets kicked over to the Ministry. The Muggles who work in these local offices have no idea what it means, of course, but from the irate look on the woman’s face, I could tell she knew we’d never face real charges. She also knew that if she chose not to report it and anyone found out, she’d never work anywhere again.

            I’m not a fan of using my privilege, but when you’re in a fascist stronghold, all bets are off.

            I glance down at Lily’s feet. Her shoes are blood stained.

            I didn’t think she had it in her. I mean, I knew Lily was psychotic, but I never expected her to use that for my benefit. I’m not too sure what to say or feel about it.

            Another officer passes by us, giving us a look of absolute loathing. The both of us return the expression. Once he’s gone, another pale face in an office of all white employees, I let my head fall back against the wall.

            Two days ago, I was in a bathtub, naked, with my beautiful boyfriend. I hope he’s pleased with himself for guilting me into this situation.

            Lily clears her throat. “So,” she quietly, “Union Jacks in hearts. Those are bad, then.”

            “That would be an understatement.”

            “What is the BNP, exactly?”

            I sigh. “The British National Party. Perhaps the only people in Britain disappointed the Nazis never invaded.”

            She nods, then says, “And we are surrounded by those people right now.”

            “No, Lily, I feel perfectly content and secure right now. The room we’re in isn’t the living, breathing definition of whiter-than-white. Besides, I love being around people who think I should be the target of something called a bloody Paki chase.”

            “Why do they always call people that? Why is it Paki? India does exist. It’s actually considerably larger than Pakistan.”

            “I don’t know, Lily, feel free to go ask one of them. Besides, brown people aren’t actually called degrading names by caucasians. That’s just lies told by people looking for attention,” I say sarcastically.

            Lily chews on her lip. “I thought you were exaggerating.” I glare at her, and she protests, “I did! I’ve never heard anyone call you anything like that before. Nor any of my friends.”

            “Really? Never? Or were you just too high to remember?”

            I expect her to come back with something cutting. Instead, Lily says softly, “Maybe.” Then she frowns. “You didn’t honestly expect me to leave you there, did you?”

            “Of course.” She’s giving me the dirtiest look. “What?”

            “That’s really what you think?”

            “Lily, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me here. But in the last—I don’t know, six years? You’ve only spoken to me when you want money or a favour. You’ve stolen from me, you’ve stolen from everyone we know, and you’ve literally never made an effort to be any kind of sister to me. You scream at me when I try to help you, scream at me when I don’t help you, and you’re just generally a terrible human being. And you’re also a drug addict on top of it. So, no, it would not have occurred to me in my wildest fantasies that you’d lift even a pinky finger to aid me against a pack of English Nazis.”

            I shake my head, looking away from her.

            “Why’d you show up today, then? At the flat?”

            “I don’t know. Blame Scorpius. He’s the one who thought I should be a good brother and help.”

            “You didn’t know?”

            “About what? The block? No, and I feel like the only one who didn’t. Frankly, Lily, I’m astonished that you’re actually facing any kind of serious consequences for any of your lapses. You had to have seen this coming. You cannot convince me they didn’t tell you before today.”

            Lily stares at the floor. “I thought they’d come.”

            “Who? Mum and Dad? No. They seem to have drawn a line in the sand this time. So instead, it’s me. Arrested in—I don’t even know where we are.” I whistle at the nearest bobby. “Where are we?”

            “Shut it!” he barks back.

            I roll my eyes, hitting my head against the wall a few times.

            “I didn’t think you’d come,” Lily says.

            I glance at her. To my dismay, I find tears welling in her eyes. No thank you. “Well, I did,” I say shortly. I turn my head away from her. “Won’t make that mistake again.”

            I hear her sniff. “What am I going to do, Al?”

            “No clue. Someone else can help you pick up the pieces.”

            “There’s no one left,” Lily says, matter of fact. “I thought it would work out. It’s always worked out before. I thought this would really be the one where it stuck. I just had to get my designs together—”

            “Your _designs_ ,” I mutter. “Would you stop going on about that? Always about your designs. Always about this thing in the future, this fantasy. Never about what’s right in front of your face. You knew you were going to be evicted, for months. Instead of stopping that, you just fantasized about a future you  cannot have unless you take care of your life now. I literally never want to hear about your future, ever again, unless you can tell me what you’re doing right now, yourself, in the moment, to achieve it. Not waiting for other people to give to you, but for you to get it. You’re out of options, and I don’t have the patience. The only reason I’m sitting here speaking with you right now is because my hands are tied behind my back. Don’t test my patience with your bloody designs.”

            I’m shaking my head as Lily says, “The only thing I have to think about is the future. I don’t have anything right now.”

            “Whose fault is that?” She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “The only answer is you. If you have any other answer than, ‘This was my fault,’ I don’t want to hear it.” I can see from Lily’s face that she can’t bring herself to say it, so I shrug. “Then keep it to yourself.”

            A few moments go by.

            Lily says, “It was supposed to be different than this. For all of us—”

            “Spare me,” I moan. “’Harry and Ginny’s children are such disappointments, they never really lived up to their potential, but how could they ever.’ Fuck all that. You want to piss away your life with midori and black tar heroin, and James wants to let his disgusting home gain sentience and eat him, that’s quite all right. I’m _happy_. My boss is terrified of me, my idiot cousin can’t persecute the oppressed anymore, my other idiot cousin will likely be Minister one day, and I have the most perfect boyfriend in the history of boyfriends. He’s rich, he’s kind, and the only tragedy about his penis is that it’s not in my mouth right now. This Potter did just fine. You and James need to catch up. And grow up.”

            “Do you think I haven’t tried?”

            “I know you haven’t. Your shtick is tired. I have zero sympathy to give you. It’s not my fault you fried your brain so early that you have the emotional maturity of a child. You made those choices, and you kept on making them.”

            “I wish you understood.”

            “I do understand, Lily. I’m just not giving you what you want.”

            “I wish you understood how quickly it happens.” Lily shrugs at me. It makes her dress fall off her shoulder. “How one day, you’re doing it because it feels like the only good thing, because people love you when you’re like that. And then you’re doing it because if you don’t you’re starving, and everyone hates you, and you can’t stop. I can’t stop, Albus. Not won’t. I don’t think I can. And everyone will say it’s my fault when I die. Do you know how quickly I went from being the life of the party to being told that my death will be because I was just too weak? Of course you don’t. Why should you? You’re not like this. You’ll never be like this. So sometimes I just want to punch you in your smug face.”

            “And I want to punch you in your entitled, narcissistic face.”

            “I have to be narcissistic. No one else loves me.”

            “Get fucked, you melodramatic bitch.” I glance down at her bare shoulder. It looks too vulnerable. So I bend over, biting into the fabric of her sleeve, and tug it back up.

            The bobby snaps, “None of that, perverts!”

            “Get fucked!” Lily and I say simultaneously.

            He slams his hands down, getting to his feet.

            “Oh, great,” I say. “We’ve been arrested together, and now we’re going to be victims of police brutality together. I blame Scorpius for all this. I should have just stayed home.”

            “Potters!” someone yells. We all look over. Auror O’Twyer is standing at the front desk, scowling.

            Standing behind her is our brother.

            “When I said you owed me,” James said, “I didn’t think you’d expect me to repay you this fast.”

 

We step out into the late evening. I’m almost vibrating, I’m so ready to leave this place.

            “We really appreciate this, Jamie,” Lily says. She’s had her most charming smile on for the last hour as Auror O’Twyer negotiated our release. “We knew you’d come for us.”

            James has gone through this far too many times to be swayed. “I did absolutely nothing. I stood there while Cynthia did us all a massive kindness. You have gratitude, it goes to her.”

            Lily looks O’Twyer over, with her short hair, lack of makeup, and scuffed robes. Lily’s smile brightens, and she outstretches a hand. “Cynthia,” she coos. “We really are—”

            “Save it,” O’Twyer says. “Particularly after that performance you put on in front of my colleagues today.” To my discomfort, she points at me. “You!” I look around, as if there’s anyone else she could be referring to. O’Twyer walks up to me, eyes cold. “This is the second time in as many months that I’ve bailed you out. There won’t be a third.”

            I look down at her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was literally a bystander as my sister protected me from white supremacists. It must have been such a hardship, letting this slide.” I hold my hands out, as if my wrists are handcuffed. “Take me in, if it will ease your conscience.”

            James closes his eyes, clearly mortified. O’Twyer turns back to him, and he says apologetically, “Cyn, I really do—”

            “Come here,” she commands, and walks him off a few paces.

            Lily and I stand together, watching the two of them come to a stop in the middle of the road. O’Twyer keeps a hand on James’ elbow, lowering her voice. Lily and I both cross our arms.

            “You’re right,” O’Twyer says. “They’re—a handful.”

            “I really appreciate you keeping this off the books. You have to stop doing me favours. You know I’ve no way of repaying you—”

            O’Twyer leans forward, brow creased. “None of that. It’s not about favours. I’ve known you since we were children, Jimmy. I’ll always have your side.”

            Lily and I look at one another, each of us mouthing, ‘Jimmy?’

            O’Twyer strokes her hand up James’ arms, then steps back. “Go home, get some sleep. You look dreadful.”

            “I know. You look—” James pauses, then smiles crookedly. “You look just as perfect as you always have.”

            Rolling her eyes, but obviously pleased, O’Twyer says, “Call me in the next few days. We could talk to one another like normal people.”

            “I’d like that.”

            “Good.” She smiles, then disapparates.

            James stands there a moment, the side of his mouth pulled up. Then he sees us looking and turns away. “Don’t even start with me—”

            “ _Jimmy_ ,” Lily mocks, “I always have _your_ side—”

            “Oh Jimmy,” I trill, holding my hands to my chest. “You look _dreadful_ , you should really get some sleep, because no one’s ever heard that cliché—”

            “Jimmy, we should have coffee, because we all know what ‘coffee’ means.”

            “What it means, Jimmy, is me curing your existential crisis with my vagina—”

            James throws his arm upwards and says in disbelief, “Why did I get you two out of this? Is there a place where I can trade the two of you in? Some sort of sibling swap I’ve never heard of?”

            “Please,” I reply, “if there was, you two would be long gone.”

            Blushing, James says, “Are you both done taking the piss or can we get out of here?”

            Shuddering, I bound down the steps. “Yes please. We’re lucky there’s not an angry mob waiting for us.”

            “There should be, you know, the way you two acted.”

            I wag a finger in his face. “Oh no, none of that. That motherfucker _opened_ with calling me a wog, James.”

            James immediately tenses. Clenching his hand into a fist, he says, “We have to get out of here before I find him and kill him.”

            “Yes. Let’s go home—”

            “Hey.” We turn around. Lily’s still standing on the steps of the station. Smiling weakly, she waves. “I am…homeless.”

            James and I both deflate. We look at one another, and I can tell we’re on the same page. Neither of us want to take her. But—she did just rescue me from Nazis, so I think I have to at least find her a place to sleep tonight.

            “Yes,” James says. He scratches the back of his neck. “We can drop you off at a friend’s?”

            Lily looks around, despair and realization filtering across her face. She sits down on the steps, wrapping her arms around her legs.

            “There must be someone.”

            With a snort, Lily answers, “You might find this difficult to believe, James, but I’ve burned all my bridges. I don’t even think my dealers would be happy to see me.”

            “Well, we’re not doing that,” James says emphatically. He’s clearly thinking of the other night. But he’s also stymied. James snaps his fingers. “Hotel! We could—put you in a hotel overnight.”

            I quickly put up my hands. “You want to take that risk, fine, but I’m not putting my credit card down on that. Lily, don’t give me that look, you know what you’ve done.”

            James cringes regretfully. “Right. Lil, I’ve only gotten my credit score decent again since the last time you stole it—”

            “It’s okay,” Lily says, her voice small. “I’ll figure it out.”

            I growl. “Fuck it. Let’s just take you to Mum and Dad’s—” James is shaking his head. “What? Why are you doing that?”

            “I went over there before coming here. They’ve left the house for the weekend, and the wards shocked the shit out of me. They knew Lily would be headed there, so they’ve just left.”

            “Oh, brilliant. Brave, fearless Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, can’t look his daughter in the eyes to tell her they’re cutting the cord—”

            “Al, that’s not helping. No, Albus. Sorry, I meant to say Albus.”

            Lily pipes up, “Why aren’t we calling him Al?”

            “He doesn’t like to be called Al.”

            “Since when?” she says incredulously.

            “Since he was eleven!” James drags his hand over his face. “I’d take her, but—I thought I’d get a jump on the cleaning, you know? I set off this mold bomb that runs overnight, kills anything living. I figured I’d stay with a mate or something.”

            James and I look at one another, then we start running through names.

            “Hugo?” James tries.

            “The vase incident. Rose, maybe?”

            “After what happened at her birthday?”

            “Ron and Hermione.”

            “The funeral. Is Luna in country?”

            I shake my head. “Now, she and Rodolphus are in Costa Rica.”

            “Albus? Lily says hesitantly. “Could—for just one night—”

            “No,” I say firmly.

            “Listen,” James tries.

            I say to him, “No.” I look at Lily. “No.”

            “Just for the night—”

            “ _No_.” I gesture to Lily. “Listen, I really appreciate that you kept that man from beating me to death, but it doesn’t put a dent into everything you’ve done to me over the years. You are not allowed to even step foot in my house until you pay back the money you stole from me.”

             James bargains, “She stole from all of us, Albus, can’t you just—”

            “100,000,” I tell him.

            James turns to Lily, eyes wide. “You stole 100,000 pounds from our brother? What the fuck!” James suddenly leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Wait—is that Nan’s bag?”

            Lily tries to push it behind herself. “No.”

            “Godric _Gryffindor_ —you even stole that? How much did you think you’d actually get for it?”

            “I wasn’t going to sell it! I—I keep my things in it.”

            James turns from her, walking a few steps away from us both. “This is not my family. This is some terrible dream I’m going to wake up from.”

            For a long moment, none of us do anything.

            Until I squeeze my eyes shut. “Oh, _fuck_!”

            “What?” says James.

            “What is it?” asks Lily.

            Slumping, I look between them both. “I—have a really bad idea.”

 

We apparate onto the lawn, and once the immediate shock’s worn off, Lily says, “You’re right. This is a really bad idea.”

            James nods. “I second that.”

            I look at the silhouette of the Burrow against the night sky with a sigh. No light, no smoke, no signs of life. There’s hardly even sounds from the insects.

            Lily steps back, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be here—I didn’t even like going in after Hugo was hurt—”

            “We’re not going inside,” I reply, walking away from them. “Come on.”

            I cross the lawn to the shed. After a few seconds, I hear Lily and James follow.

            The shed is unassuming from the outside, but it was made by the same people who did Granddad’s expanding tents. The door is unlocked, because everything around here is unlocked. I open it for the others, waiting until they move inside before slipping in after them. I point to the ceiling, lighting the candles, and the room is illuminated.

            To an adult’s eye, it really does look like a pile of junk, spread out over three rooms’ worth of space. To three imaginative children, it was paradise. All of Granddad’s Muggle collection is in here. Nan would never let it in the house, so we’d all come out here and run through it. The three of us, and Rose and Hugo, and other cousins who came and went.

            “Blimey,” James says faintly.

            “When’s the last time the three of us were in here together?” asks Lily.

            “I didn’t come back in here after I went to Hogwarts. You, Albus?”

            I shrug. “It wasn’t the same after you left, so probably about the same for me.”

            Lily lets out a shriek. “Peter Rabbit!” She goes racing down the length of the shed. James and I look at one another, then follow.

            Odds and ends fill this place, put together with no rhyme or reason that I can discern. Porcelain figurines sit next to a hub cap. Granddad’s beloved plug collection—now in the several dozens—is displayed next to an ancient Mac keyboard.

            James holds up some bendy straws. “Do you understand any of this?”

            “You’re in no position to judge, hoarder.”

            Lily is standing at the back of the shed, in the play area. It’s really nothing more than a few sofas, surrounded by Muggle children’s things haphazardly stacked on shelves. Lily’s holding a Peter Rabbit doll in her hands, staring at him in horror. His left ear has been torn away.

            “What have they done to him?” Lily gasps.

            With a shrug, I drop down on one of the sofas. “I imagine the great grandchildren got hold of it. This was never only our hideaway.”

            “Those little beasts.” Lily takes out her wand, growing Peter a new ear. Once she’s done so, she tenderly strokes his head. “Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter.”

            “Lily, let me get this straight. You can’t remember to pay your rent, but you can recall a line from a story you heard when you were four.”

            “It was a very important story.” Lily flops down on the floor. “And I didn’t forget to pay my rent, I just…didn’t do it.”

            “That’s preferable, yes,” James mutters. He looks around, then sits down on the sofa across from me. “This is unlike you.”

            He’s speaking to me. “What do you mean?”

            “You’re not sentimental. Inordinately attached to the past, yeah, but bringing us back here—not like you to take us somewhere with good memories.”

            “I was on the spot. Don’t worry, I realize it’s out of character.” I pull up my legs, resting my head against the arm of the sofa. “It’s just until Kimber’s up. She’ll know what to do about Lily. I don’t want to wake her, though. I’ve a bad tendency of only calling her when there’s a crisis.”

            “You think she can help?”

            “I don’t know if _anyone_ can help. But if someone could…it might be her.”

            James nods, and says, “I’ll set an alarm. We should leave before Granddad gets up.”

            We’re quiet a moment. Then we both watch Lily.

            Lily, in her pretty white dress, the same style as when she was a child, petting her favourite doll, in her own little world.

 

“Ask you something?”

            Lily raises her head. James jerks, and I realize he was dozing off when I spoke. Lily says, “All right.”

            “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

            Nonplussed, Lily shrugs and continues placing large beads on a length of twine. “It’s not exactly a skill you learn. People think you’re vulnerable, they do bad things to you. If you show them that you’re too crazy to stop, they leave you alone.”

            “Frankly, I think you did more damage to him than James and I could have done together.”

            “Hey,” James says.

            “Last time you tried to hit me, you fell on your arse. Let’s be realistic, James.” I look at Lily’s arms, wrapped in a shawl. The blue veins that run up and down. “What’s heroin like?”

            “Jesus, Albus—”

            Lily says, “Imagine every orgasm you ever had. All at once. Seriously, imagine it. Are you imagining it?” I nod, and Lily continues, “Your pathetic little ejaculations are barely a hiccup compared to heroin.”

            I consider it. “Maybe I should try heroin.”

            James says, “Let’s not joke like that—”

            “I’m kidding, James. It’s fine.” I look at him. “So what’s the story with O’Twyer?”

            “No story,” James says, avoiding our eyes.

            “She likes you.”

            “Nah. I’m too much of a mess for her.”

            “Are you sure she knows that?”

            Lily claps her hands together with a squeal, startling us. “I know what this is!”

            “You’ll wake Granddad,” I hiss.

            Lily leans forward, eyes lit up. “She’s the scruffy female friend that you never noticed because you were too busy being arrogant and playing the field, but now that you’ve had a life altering incident, you’ve re-evaluated and realize that she was the one for you all along! I love those stories!”

            “She’s not scruffy,” James protests. Lily and I both make faces. “She’s not! I don’t want to talk about this.”

            “Has she ever tried to cure you with her vagina before?” I ask.

            “Has she?” Lily chimes in.       

            James shakes his head, horror-struck. “I am not talking about _anyone’s_ vagina with my little brother and sister. You two are deranged.”

            Lily blows a raspberry. “Lame.”

            “The lamest,” I agree.

            James gestures to us. “See, this is why we don’t get together.”

            “Yeah, that’s the only reason.”

            Lily turns to me. “I have a question.”

            “No.”

            “You asked me questions!”

            “So?”

            Lily says, trying to be casual about it, “How are things with Scorpius?”

            I shake my head at her. “Oh no. _You_ don’t get to ask me about Scorpius, after you outed me to our family to try and embarrass me. You don’t get to touch that topic with a ten foot wand.”

            “How are things with Scorpius?” James asks.

            “Fuck off! My relationship is none of your business either.”

            “Has _he_ tried to cure you with his vagina?”

            Lily snickers, and I say, “If either of us had a vagina, it would obviously be me. After all, I’m the cunt.”

            “No argument there,” Lily mutters.

            “Nor from me,” adds James. I flip them off. “But—for real, like. You’re—doing okay?”

            “We’re fine,” I say.

            Lily and James look at one another, then back to me. “What did you do?” Lily asks.

            “I said we’re fine!”

            “I’m curious—in bed—”

            “No. No no no—”

            “I’ve always thought that he would be either very, very vanilla, going along with that whole too good to be true exterior, or else he would have some sort of kinky, dark Malfoy streak that would make things with him just insane. Which is it?”

            “I am—I’m not discussing this with you!”

            “You have slept together, right?” says James.

            Mouth agape, I say, “We aren’t seriously having this conversation.”

            “He’s not just stringing you along, is he? Saying he’s not ready, saying he wants to take things slow and all that because it’s new? Because I had a friend who had a guy like that, and in the end he went back to being straight and my friend had his bloody heart broke. Not to mention a tremendous case of blue bollocks.”

            I press my lips together. Lily whispers, “He did, didn’t he.”

            Unbelievable. I burst out, “ _If_ you must know—it was a mutual decision to take things slow—” Lily and James both start trying to argue with me, so I raise my voice. “I said mutual!”

            “What if he goes back to Rose?” Lily says to me.

            James gags. “No way he’d do that, after how Rose treated him.”

            “I don’t know, she’s had a real change in brand over the last few weeks.”

            Thoughtfully, James agrees, “She _has_ had quite a redemption arc. Albus, what do _you_ have?”

            “A sparkling personality,” I sneer.

            James and Lily grimace. Lily says, “Yikes.”

            I set my hands flat on my thighs and speak to them as calmly as I’m able. “I don’t know if he’ll leave me to go back to Rose. If he does, then at least I gave it a shot. Does that satisfy you both, or would you like to interrogate me more?”

            They think about it.

            “At least you took the chance.” James admits, “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

            “I always thought you’d die an old maid,” Lily adds. “But, like, an old maid with chlamydia.”

            “Good talk,” I say, rolling my eyes.

            “And you, Jamie? What dark secrets are you holding?”

            James blows out a breath. “You don’t want to hear about it, Lil.”

            “Of course I do, you’re my brother.”

            I scoff, “When has that ever counted before?”

            Frowning, Lily counters, “I’m not _monstrously_ selfish, you know.” James and I both try to stifle laughter. “I’m not! I care. Maybe I haven’t been the best at showing it, but I do.” She stabs the twine through another bead. “No one cares about _me_.”

            “You’re right, we’re here in the middle of the night with you, trying to figure out how to keep you safe, because we don’t give a shit.”

            “You just don’t want to feel guilty if I die.”

            “You’re right, I don’t. That clearly makes me a terrible brother.”

            James says, “When’s the last time we got together and didn’t argue?”

            “The easy answer? Never.”

            “I have another question,” says Lily. It’s directed at me.

            Sighing, I raise my shoulders. “Fine.”

            Mulling it over, Lily asks, “What did you do to Sian?”

            I don’t want to answer that.

            I also don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t want to just get over it. It was a terrible thing I did, and it should bother me. It should stick with me, regardless of how wretched Sian was.

            Picking at my cuticles, I say quietly, “You know how—when I was a kid, I’d blow up?” They know. “He got under my skin, and I lost it with him.”

            James says, hushed, “Did you kill him?”

            “No, Jesus. I think I was trying to wipe his memory, but…I think I wiped _him_. He couldn’t talk. His eyes wouldn’t focus. He was just…not really there.”

            “Merlin’s beard.”

            “How did he get under your skin?” Lily is gazing at me, her beads forgotten.

            I look at her. “He said he’d pay you in heroin until you were so strung out that you’d let him stick his cock in your mouth.” James hisses, and Lily’s brow furrows. “So your brother, who clearly doesn’t care about you, lost his temper a bit.”

            Lily goes back to her beads. She’s chewing on her lips.

            We don’t say anything to one another for at least a minute. This is strange enough as it is. I can’t remember the last time it was the three of us, on our own. The only other times I’ve seen them together have been at our parents’ house. We know one another too well, that’s the problem.

            “I’ve been getting high,” James says suddenly. He stares at the floor. “It’s not just you, Lil. After—after my arm, I couldn’t cope, so I started going around to the same people I used to try and pull you away from. No one knows except you and Albus. He had to come and save me the other night as well. I’m not trying to be high and mighty with you. I’ve got no place. I just don’t want you dying on us, all right?”

            Lily’s staring at him.

            Then she hurls Peter Rabbit so hard at James’ head that the doll bounces.

            “Have you lost your mind?!” Lily screams, leaping to her feet. “Do you want to be like me?”

            “Lily—”

            Waving my arms, I hiss, “Shut it, you’ll wake Granddad—”

            Lily strides over to James and starts slapping him around the shoulders and head. “Do you want your whole family to hate you? Do you want to be some fucking cautionary tale, some story that people tell their kids, don’t be like her, she’ll die before she’s twenty five, she’s dirty, she’s such a waste, she shames her whole family! Is that what you want?! Is that you want them to say about you, you stupid, stupid prick?”

            James is trying to shield his head with his arm, either unwilling or unable to fend off Lily’s relatively weak blows. “Lil, I’m sorry—”

            Lily is starting to cry. She kicks James in the shin. “You’re supposed to take care of me! You can’t fucking take care of me if you are me, so stop it! You need to just stop it, you can’t be me—don’t fucking be me—”

            She drops her arms, weeping. James looks up hesitantly. Lily wavers there a moment, then she drops to her knees. She lays her head in James’ lap and sobs.

            James and I look at one another, dumbstruck. He lays his hand on Lily’s head, inhaling deeply. “I’ll be okay, Lil.” She wails, and James blinks. I see a change in his face. He goes from being uncertain to the brother I used to know. But softer, somehow. James strokes Lily’s hair, and says, “I’m going to be okay, Lily. I’ve put that nonsense behind me. I’ll get my act together. It’s okay, Lil. Let it out.”

            Lily cries for a long time. James pets her hair, rubs her back, and is a generally good brother. I just sit here awkwardly, not sure where to look. I settle for pulling out my phone. James gives me a dirty look, so I roll my eyes and put my mobile away, looking at the ceiling instead.

            Eventually, what feels like months later, Lily sits back. She has to wipe her face with both hands. “Shit. I’ve ruined my makeup.”

            I let out a laugh. They both look at me, startled. I try not to giggle, but it’s hopeless. “That’s what you’re worried about? Everything else in your life, you’re worried about your _highlight_?”

            “Shut up,” Lily says, as James starts chuckling. Lily looks between the two of us and smiles. “Stop!”

            That sets us off even more. And when James says, between gasps, “What’s highlight?” the three of us collectively lose it.

            I don’t know why it’s funny, but in this moment, it’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. So I laugh and laugh, and they do too. We laugh together until my stomach is sore, until Lily’s wheezing, “I’m going to pee—I’m going to pee—”

            We’re only starting to come out of it when Lily says, still half laughing, “What am I going to do, boys? No prospects, no friends, I’ve alienated Mum and Dad to the point they’ve abandoned our childhood home—I’ve got nowhere to go. I’m an addict. I’m an alcoholic and an addict and I don’t know what could possibly stop this from happening all over again.”

            James shakes his head. “Well—I’m an ex auror with one arm who killed a woman. I’ve no idea what to do with my life, zero sense of self, and I’m a disappointment to my hero. And I don’t ever want to step foot in my flat again because it smells like despair. And suicidal ideation.” Lily puts her hand on his knee and smiles at him.

            “I’m doing just fine,” I say.

            They immediately turn on me.

            “Oh, I’m special,” Lily mocks.

            “I’m in _love_ ,” James needles.

            “I have a stable job and don’t care about the opinions of others and I have a rich boyfriend.”

            “Look at me, I’m Albus, I’m so _sorted_.”

            I say, “Well, when you put it like that.”

            Lily looks up at James. For a moment, she looks so much like Mum that I understand what Dad saw when he fell in love with her thirty years ago. “You and me, Jamie. Who’ll have us?”

            “I will,” says Granddad.

            We all scream. So does Granddad. His dentures pop out of his mouth. I’ve fallen to the side, the first person to realize what’s happened. Everyone else stops screaming a second after I do. “Jesus Christ,” I groan, putting a hand over my pounding heart.

            Granddad is standing there in an open robe, in a sleep shirt and boxers with large hairy men on them, the words SLEEPING GIANT scattered around them. He holds out a hand towards his dentures. “ _Achthio_!” Frowning, he tries again. “ _Achthio_!”

            James drops his head, then starts pushing himself up. Before he can, Lily scampers forward. She grabs Granddad’s dentures off the floor, then gives them a clean up with her wand. She holds them out to Granddad, saying in a small voice, “Here you go.” Granddad takes them, and Lily cringes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I can go, it’s okay—”

            As he pops in his teeth, Granddad takes Lily’s hand and gives it a swing. He swishes his dentures around, then says, “Lily girl, go have a seat with your brother.” Lily quickly goes to sit on the sofa with James. Granddad waves a hand, and a chair comes sailing across the room. “Do you mind if I join you?” We look amongst one another, wide eyed, and Granddad just laughs. “I’m kidding, it’s my house.”

            He lowers himself into the chair, and I say, “We didn’t mean to wake you, Granddad.”

            “We won’t be here long,” James adds. “We just needed a place to—” He stops, unsure of how to finish. Hide? Regroup? Lick our wounds? Laugh about highlight?

            Granddad inhales through his nose, then says, “I hope you kids won’t mind, but I have a few of these around.” He holds up some shrivelled flesh coloured thing on a string.

            We all squint at it, then James says, “Is that an Extensible Ear? I thought the Ministry banned those.”

            “They did. But all kinds of things show up around the Burrow, if you look hard enough.”

            I realize what this means. “You were eavesdropping on us.”

            Exasperated, Granddad said, “Actually, Albus, I wanted to see who had broken into my shed.” He gestures towards the main house. “You know, I’m not a doddering old fool. There is an alarm that goes off inside when people apparate onto the property after dark. So I thought I would see who it was before calling the aurors. Good thing I did, since it was my three favourite grandchildren.”

            “You told Victoire, Dominique, and Louis they were your favourites,” Lily says.

            I’m not letting things go. “So how much did you hear?”

            Granddad makes a face. “Rather more than a grandfather should know about his favourite grandchildren. Or anyone, I imagine.” We all squirm, unable to look at each other, or him. Granddad folds his hands together. “So. Lily. James. You’re having some hardship.”

            “We’re fine,” James rushes to say.

            “You don’t need to worry about it,” Lily says.

            “I do need to worry about it,” Granddad counters. “Neither of you have homes to go to. Not really. So you’ll stay here with me.”

            There’s silence.

            “Ah,” says James. Lily is just pale.

            I say, “That’s not a good idea.”

            Granddad smiles at me, and says kindly, “Albus, I understand that you have my best interest at heart. But this is between your brother, sister, and I.” I frown, put in my place. “I have more room than I know what to do with. Rooms that need people in them.”

            “I appreciate the offer,” James says, “but—I don’t think that would be a good idea.” He glances at Lily.

            Lily clears her throat. “I don’t—I don’t think I could, Granddad. I…I haven’t done anything to deserve to live with you.”

            “Deserve? What does ‘deserve’ have to do with anything? You’re family. Family looks after one another. Look at the three of you. You’ve had your differences. But here you are, back where you started, helping one another. Lily, it’s not for you to decide if I’m ready to trust you. That’s up to me. And the only way to build trust is to take a chance on someone. For all the heartache you’ve caused, you’re a good girl, and I believe in you. I’d give you the shirt off my back. To any of you. And you’d do the same for each other, though you’d moan about it more than was dignified.” We all open our mouths to argue, and Granddad lifts a hand, silencing us. He looks at us, with Mum’s green eyes, and says earnestly, “I’m lonely.”

            Leaning forward, I say quietly, “We know.”

            “Now—I thought that—that after your Nan died, that I would be all right, staying here on my own. I thought that I could stay here alone until I died. But…I can’t bear it anymore, my loves. I can’t bear to leave it, and I can’t bear to be alone. I’m asking you for help. Will you help me?”

            James and Lily look at one another. They have a short, silent conversation. James comes to a decision first, to Lily’s disbelief. Turning back to Granddad, James says, “I’ll pay my way.”

            “Of course you will. There will be rules, for the both of you. This isn’t a handout. This is the three of us, helping one another. Thank you, James.” Granddad smiles at my sister, reassuringly. “What do you say, Lily girl?”

            To Lily’s credit, she looks reluctant.

            “What if I mess up?” she says, voice far too young.

            “Then we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and try again. That’s what Weasleys do.”

            Lily doesn’t look convinced. Then she turns to me. “What do you think?”

            A part of me, a large part, is screaming that it’s a terrible idea. But I’m tired of listening to the first thought that comes to mind.

            Carefully, I say, “Granddad could use someone here. I’d do it, but—I have a home, and I couldn’t leave it anymore than he could. If he is willing to take a chance, then I need to respect that, because I love him, and he’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. If you can prove that he made the right decision, it would go a long way to turning around people’s opinions of you. But I need to make one thing very clear with you.” Granddad tries to speak, and I raise a hand, cutting him off. Looking directly into Lily’s eyes, I say, “If you fuck this up, you and I are done. You and I will not be brother and sister anymore.” Granddad starts talking, and I raise my hand higher. “This is the last one, as far as I’m concerned, Lily. If you hurt him—if this good, wonderful man gives you this chance and you piss it away, I will never, ever forgive you. I won’t love you anymore. Do you understand?”

            Lily inhales, shakily. “I understand.”

            “Then what do you want to do?”

            Lily swallows. She looks at Granddad and says, “I accept.”

            He claps his hands together. “Excellent. Now—I am eighty years old and it’s past my bedtime. Let’s move this inside, shall we?” I get up to help him from his chair. “Oh, and Lily?” Granddad points to the bag she’s tried to surreptitiously push behind the sofa. “First thing tomorrow, you’ll empty that out, so you can return it—with apologies—to my other favourite granddaughter. There’s a good girl.” He hooks his arm through mine. “Albus, let’s swing by the loo, shall we? I also have an eighty year old bladder.”

            “And a heart that’s too big for your body,” I mutter.

           

I look up as Granddad shuffles into the room. He holds up a green quilt. “Do you remember this?”

            I reach up to put my phone on the table by my head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

            Unfolding it, Granddad says, “This was the quilt I wrapped you in the first time your Mum and Dad left you alone with me.”

            He goes to drape it over me, and I protest, “Granddad, you don’t have to—”

            “If you insist on sleeping on the sofa instead of a bed, you’ll at least let me tuck you in. Now—” Granddad lays the blanket over me, and actually goes about tucking it under and around me. “Your Nan had a fit. ‘Arthur, the blanket’s too big for him, it has to be proportionate.’ But you looked so sweet. Like you were wearing a prince’s robes. I tried to tuck you in with this when you were older, but you liked the blue blanket better. Now you’re at my mercy, so you’ll have the green instead.” Finishing, Granddad puts a hand to my face. He bends down low to look me in the eyes. “You’ll deny it, but I remember when you were little. You were the sweetest little boy, and you’re a good, good man, and I’m very proud of you. You hear me, son?”

            Unable to stop my smile, I murmur, “Yes sir.”

            “Good.” He kisses my hair, then steps away. “Sleep tight.”

            “Thanks, Granddad. I love you.”

            “I love you too, my darling boy.” He turns the light off, and I hear him walk away as I close my eyes.

            What…a long night. I’m too tired to even contemplate thinking about it. The kind of tired that leaves the brain buzzing and the eyes strained. So I let myself drift off. I can think some other day.

            “Are you asleep?”

            “Yes,” I mumble. The lights turn on, and I groan. I have no idea if I slept at all or not. Lily plunks herself down on the edge of the couch, a book in her lap. I wipe my eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

            “I won’t keep you up. I just wanted to show you something.”

            “Unless it’s naked men, I don’t care.”

            “I want you to take a look at this, and tell me if you think it’s good. I know you don’t know anything about fashion—you are hopeless in that regard—but I’d like it if you’d look.”

            “What on earth is happening—”

            Lily thrusts the open book into my face. I take it, automatically, squinting. I’m exhausted after days of not sleeping. Seeing straight doesn’t feel like an option.

            After a moment, though, I tilt my head.

            “Wow,” I say.

            Lily says, “Wow? Really?”

            I flip the page, then I flip through a few more. At a loss for words, I say, “These are really good, Lily. This is what you’ve been working on?”

            “You’re not having me on? You think they’re good?”

            I close the book, and hold it out to her. “What do you care what I think? You’re always going on about how talented you know you are.”

            Lily shrugs. “Yeah, but…my vision’s skewed.” She opens the book, and thumbs through the pages wistfully. “It’s just a bit of a dream.”

            “Lil—”

            “But it’s good to have dreams. Everyone needs at least one.” Lily looks at her work and says, “I know you’ll think I didn’t take it seriously, what you said. I take it very seriously. I need you to love me, Albus.” She shuts the book, then leans over me to turn off the light. She gives me a fast kiss on the forehead, then leaves me.

 

I sit up. I’m on the sofa in the Burrow. Only everything is wrong. It’s night, but everything has a grey cast.

            “No parades,” says the woman in Granddad’s chair. I cannot make out her features. She’s old, I think, slumped. Hair frizzy. Her voice comes out over gravel, not entirely of this world. “No monuments. No one says my name. No one knows my name.”

            “Fatima?” I ask.

            “Even the one mourning us doesn’t mourn poor Fatima. Fatima died alone in the cold, all on her lonesome. He promised the other to avenge him. Not poor Fatima.”

            “Your name is Fatima Gundersen—”

            She raises her head. “No,” she says sharply. “They buried me under his name. Man who beat me—beat me til the bones in my face broke. The man who put me on the street. Men and men and men. No parades for poor Fatima. No monuments with her name. An after thought, is poor Fatima. Unloved—and unmourned.”

            “I’ll mourn you.”

            A black shape screams through the window, roaring in my face, “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HER NAME!”

            I throw my arms out as I wake, gasping in as hard as I’m able. Oh no. Oh no. No. Just a dream. Okay. That was just a dream, it was a dream—

            A black shape looms in the window at the foot of the sofa.

            I shriek.

            A wand is quickly lit, and Scorpius’s apologetic, pained face is illuminated. He points at himself, mouthing, ‘It’s me! It’s me!’

            I collapse. Fucking…what the fuck. Who decided I just wasn’t allowed to sleep ever again?

            He’s here. Scorpius is here.

            Shoving back the blankets, I get to my feet, and sneak my way across the carpet, hoping I didn’t wake everyone up. I probably did, but fuck it. I slip outside, where the sun is beginning to rise.

            Scorpius is coming to meet me. I pick up pace and throw myself into his arms.

            Squeezing my eyes closed, I bury my face against his neck, arms wrapped around him. I feel his hand on the back of my head. “Hey,” Scorpius murmurs. “Hey.” He rubs a hand up and down my spine. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. I know I should have waited until morning, but I couldn’t stand it. I heard that the three of you had been involved in something. I just wanted to know that you were safe. I got it in my head to track you down and make sure you were okay. And here you are, and you’re just fine.”

            I pull back enough to kiss him. His mouth, I’ve missed his mouth and it’s only been—what, a day? “Where else did you go?”

            Scorpius shakes his head. “This is the first. I tried to think of where the three of you would feel safe. This was the only place that made sense.”

            Closing my eyes again, I let my face fall against his. I stand here, swaying, too exhausted to keep myself upright.

            Scorpius says, “I am so sorry. So sorry for everything I said, that I did—I don’t know what came over me, I just had it in my head to pick a fight, and you know that’s not like me, it’s not like me at all. I don’t know why I did that, Albus.”

            “Because you were frustrated and needed to fight and you know I’ll never turn down the opportunity.”

            “But you did. You were so mature about it, and I just kept poking at you—”

            “It didn’t mean I had to rise to the bait. But I did.”

            Scorpius lifts my chin. “I won’t do it again,” he promises. “I’m not going to jeopardize this just because I had a bad day. Because I’m in a foul mood. That would be a terrible reason to lose you. I don’t want to lose you, Albus. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

            “You’re not going to lose me. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved. I’m not going anywhere over a spat.”

            Scorpius nuzzles his forehead against mine. “So you do love me,” he says quietly.

            I exhale. “Don’t you know? Does it have to be said?”

            “No. I suppose it doesn’t. I see it every time I look at your face.” He runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “Oh, love. You look so tired. I should let you get back to sleep.”

            Shaking my head, I wrap my arms around him again. “Hold me awhile.”

            He holds me until I fall asleep standing up, and when I wake in the morning, I’m back on the sofa, tucked in, Scorpius’ jacket in my arms.


	19. Chapter 19

I’m pouring milk over cereal when I notice Scorpius standing in the doorway. He’s dressed for work, everything about him neat and in place. He looks determined about something. So I raise a brow and say, “Yes?”

            Scorpius swallows, then says, “I should have your cock in my mouth. I feel quite strongly about this.”

            I stand here. Then I look behind myself, just to be sure there’s no one in the shadows, filming this as a joke. No, it’s only Scorpius, Zamora, and I, on a Thursday morning. Turning back to Scorpius, I say bluntly, “Why?”

            He swallows again—what, is he trying to practice? “I’ve thought about it a great deal, and it is a thing I’m ready to do. So we should do that.”

            It’s so patently ridiculous that I have to struggle not to laugh, let alone smile. Setting down the milk carton, I say, “Much as I appreciate you coming to this momentous decision, and much as I’d like to see your pretty mouth flail around my private bits, we both have to get to work.”

            “I would not flail.” I snort, going to put away the milk, and Scorpius insists, “I wouldn’t! I’m not saying I would be much good at it, certainly not at first, but I’ve had enough experience being on the receiving end that I don’t think I’d muck it up too badly.”

            “Once a year on your birthday and once with me in the last few days doesn’t exactly qualify you as an expert.” I pick up the two bowls, carrying them to the table and sitting down.

            “It’s a fair sight more than that. Why aren’t you taking me seriously?”

            I finally crack a smile. “Scorpius—if that’s a thing you want to do, we can certainly explore that. When we’ve more than ten minutes. Besides, you don’t need to be in a rush. You don’t want me to just enjoy pleasuring you for the time being?”

            Scorpius drops down in front of his bowl with a frown. “Well, maybe that’s just it. It was so good that I feel a bit shit not trying to do the same for you.”

            I put a hand over his, and say as lovingly as I’m able. “Between my innate raw talent and years of experience, I doubt you’ll ever be able to do the same for me.”

            Scorpius growls, and digs into his cereal. He plays with it a moment, then drops his spoon. “Can we speed things up?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “I mean, we’ve been together nearly two months and I think I’ll expire if we don’t speed things along. Not that I haven’t enjoyed what we’ve done. Matter of fact, I’ve enjoyed it enormously, and the idea that there’s more to experience with you—I’m finding it difficult to wait any longer.”

            It should be music to my ears. Oddly enough, I find myself a bit hesitant. “There’s no rush.”

            Scorpius narrows his eyes at me. “Do you not enjoy sex with me?”

            “No! I mean, yes—yes, of course I do. If I thought that either of us would be pleased taking a few minutes right now for you to fumble your way through your first blow job, we’d do that. But I don’t think it’d be right.”

            Scorpius starts to smile. “You want it to be _special_.”

            “Shut up.”

            “You _do_. Albus, I had no idea. I’ll have to buy candles and roses.”

            I roll my eyes, then say, a tad needy, “You’re certain you can’t come over tonight?”

            Regretfully, Scorpius says, “I promised to get a drink after work with the colleagues. And I haven’t spent a night at home all week. Dad wants to see my face. And Aedesia’s getting a touch neurotic.” Before I can say anything, Scorpius points at my face. “She is _perfect_. Stop making jabs about my owl.”

            “Fine. Be that way. I’ll just be here, all by myself, prick unmarked by your teeth.”

            “I thought you weren’t supposed to use teeth.”

            I purr, “Only if you don’t know how to do it properly.”

            Scorpius smirks. I kick him lightly under the table, and he kicks me back. “Tomorrow?” Scorpius suggests. “We have to go to Hugo’s thing, but then it can be you and me, and no responsibilities?”

            “That sounds nice.”

            Scorpius studies me a moment, then he runs a hand over my hair. “You’re so soft.” I slap his hand away. He just grabs my fingers, kissing them, then we go back to eating breakfast.

 

It’s strange, being here at the end of the day without Scorpius. I’m so used to lying on the couch with him, reading with him, taking turns petting Zamora. Having toothless fights over what to eat for dinner. I was alone for so long that it shouldn’t have been so easy to change my routine that completely.

            And yet, even when he’s not here, I’m thinking about him.

            I’m thinking about the other night, when he climbed into bed naked, pushing away my book and pulling me on top of him. How it felt to have my face pressed to the cornsilk curls of his pubic hair, softer than they had any right to be. How that part of him smelled of soap, how I knew he had washed there before guiding my head downwards, giving me every indication of _I want this, I want you to do this_.

            Zamora meows, lifting me from my reverie. She’s sitting on my belly, staring at me. I put my book aside, and she crawls forward until she can rub her face against my jaw.

            “You’ve been so good, sharing me,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears. “You’re much less selfish than I am. If it was the other way around, I wouldn’t share you with anyone.”

            When Scorpius gave her to me, Zamora was only a kitten. A little grey ball of fluff with pale blue eyes. “I realize this is presumptuous,” Scorpius said as I stared inside the box, “but I thought you might be able to keep each other company.”

            She’s the best gift I’ve ever received. I’d never had a pet before. I didn’t know that I would be able to take care of her. But she was patient with me, and she was loyal. I’ll never be parted from her.

            I hear someone apparate into the backyard. I immediately perk, hoping it’s Scorpius. Lifting my head, I peer towards the windows.

            Instead of Scorpius’ face, I see my father’s as he strides towards my back door, looking grim.

            “Ugh.” I sit up, giving Zamora’s head a kiss as Dad starts knocking. “This was supposed to be a nice, quiet night, wasn’t it. Who do you have money on for first blood?”

            When I go to the door, I hesitate. Dad looks agitated. Great, I love being around my father when he’s upset. Opening the door, I say, “Hi Dad—” He pushes past me. I hold onto the door, taking a deep breath. “Yes, come in.”

            Zamora is spitting at Dad. He turns to me, grimacing.

            “Oi, guard cat. Go to the bedroom.” Zamora huffs, then walks away with her tail high in the air. I cross my arms, waiting for Dad to get whatever it is off his chest.

            He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing his seal. When did his beard become so grey? Mouth twisted, Dad says, “I’ve been talking to your brother. He says it was his idea to take your sister to Granddad’s.”

            I shake my head. “That’s not true. It was mine.”

            “I know. Your brother would never do something so thoughtless.”

            I blink. “Oh. Are we dispensing with the illusion that we care about one another?” I shrug, and go to have a seat at the table. “This should be interesting.”

            Fuming, Dad says, “I cannot believe you did something so callous. You know your Granddad is too kind for his own good. How could you take her there after what she did?”

            “I’m sorry, but you don’t get to have an opinion on where we took Lily to keep her off the streets, since you and Mum decided to just skip town.”

            “We’re establishing boundaries!”

            “No, you did what you always do. Absent yourself when things get difficult.”

            “Albus, I am getting sick of this.”

            “ _You_ are?”

            “I don’t understand why you do this. Why you have this perverse need to hurt us.”

            “I’m sorry, but who’s been hurt? James and Lily have a place to stay, and Granddad’s not all alone. The only one who seems upset here is you.”

            “Your mum is upset! Your aunt and uncle—” Dad grunts. “She was supposed to figure out that she couldn’t always expect us to pick her up, that she had to rely on herself.”

            “Yeah? Did you tell her that?”

            “Of course we told her that. And what the hell is James doing there? Why is your brother supposed to be babysitting your sister when he should be working on getting things back on track? He has a job, a home—he shouldn’t have to put that on hold!”

            I gaze at him a moment. “Do you want me to answer, or would you prefer to yell at me?”

            “Actually, Albus, I’d really prefer to just yell at you.”

            Raising my shoulders, I say with some interest, “Be my guest.”

            Jaw tense, Dad says, “You’ve had a pretty good life, Albus, something you don’t seem to realize. You had parents who loved you, a home where you were safe and fed, people to rely on. You lived in a world where there was peace, something that would have been unimaginable even ten years before you were born. And still, you’ve always acted like we hurt you somehow, like you didn’t get enough, and I don’t even understand of what. These constant jabs, this insistence that our family was somehow lacking—this need of yours to sabotage everyone to make yourself feel better, it’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and I’m sick of it. I was a good dad to you, best I was able, and you need to start bloody acting like it.”

            I wait a moment. “Are you finished?”

            “No, I’m ruddy well not. You’re going to apologize to your grandfather for putting him in this position, and you’re going to talk him out of this terrible idea before something happens that we all regret.”

            “Dad—”

            “Don’t ‘Dad’ me, just do it! He doesn’t know better, and you need to fix this.”

            “Anything else on your list for me?”

            “Apologize to your cousin.”

            “Which one?”

            “Rose! This—whatever you have going on with Scorpius, whatever you did to break them up, you’re going to apologize to her. It was vindictive and bizarre and you should be ashamed of yourself.” At that, I raise my brows, starting to smile. “Don’t smirk at me! And don’t you dare think you’re bringing him to the celebration next week. If you even try it, I’ll have you blocked at the door.” Dad glares at me, then snaps, “Stop laughing at me!”

            “Let me get this straight. You want to come in my house, act like you’re in charge, and tell me that I should respect you, tell famous warrior Arthur Weasley who he should and shouldn’t have in his home, and apologize to the woman who dumped my best friend, now boyfriend, when he asked her to marry him? Can you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

            “You’re twisting my words.”

            “No, you’re being preposterous.”

            “No, I’m not! I’m not letting you do this, where you tell me the sky is red and get the last word in so you think you’ve won. I’m your father! Act like it!”

            “If you’re my father, _you_ act like it.”

            Disgusted, Dad turns away from me. “You’re behaving like a child.”

            “I’m not the one who barged into another man’s house and started making demands. Look, I get that the rest of the world is in Harry Potter Day mode, and you’ve gotten used to everyone bending over backwards to stroke your ego, and Merlin knows what else, but I still don’t give a shit that you’re Harry Potter. You’re just my dad, for better and infinitely worse.”

            Dad slams his hand down on the counter, startling me. “Don’t talk to me like that! Do you know—do you know what I would give to talk to my father? To see him, just once?”

            “No.”

            “No, you don’t! I’d give anything, anything I had. And you sit there and you make your little comments, as if I wasn’t there, as if you didn’t have a father at all.”

            “Dad, you clearly don’t want to hear reason, so—”

            “No, go on! Go on, tell me where it is you think I failed. I was _there_ , Albus. I was there when you were born, I tucked you in at night, I read you stories. I put your drawings up in my office, I showed your pictures to all my friends, I tied your bloody shoes.”

            “Yes. You did all that. Until I was eleven. As soon as I was placed in Slytherin, you acted like I was tainted.”

            “Because you were. All my hopes for you—” Dad snaps his fingers. “Gone like that. Because that’s the first time I knew there was something wrong with you.” He turns his back to me.

            I’m unable to speak. That—cut quite deep.

            Dad turns around, sighing. “I didn’t mean that—”

            “Yeah you did. Like when you said you wished I wasn’t your son—”

            “Can you not let that go?! It was ten years ago!”

            I feel something dark moving into myself. Something that may not want to be controlled. “Or when I came out and you said I was an embarrassment. You have these moments of clarity, and then you apologize for it. Like I wouldn’t prefer your honesty.”

            “You want me to be honest?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then I don’t like you very much. Especially right now.”

            “That’s fine, because I love you.”

            “Oh, stop it, Al! Don’t pretend like you’re going to take the high road, because you certainly never have before.”

            “Dad, you can’t pretend like the high road’s yours, after you said a child was tainted because he went to Slytherin. Houses mean fuck all. Lily was in Gryffindor, and if it weren’t for that glamour she always has on, she’d have more track marks than freckles.”

            “Your sister _is_ brave! If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have survived this long!”

            “Right, my sister who we’re supposed to just leave on the streets.”

            “She would have found her footing.”

            I prop my head up, massaging my forehead. “Yeah, we should all just get by on our own, never relying on one another. That’s why James is having such an easy job of it right now.”

            “At least your brother’s done something with his life. He has a good job, that means something—he got hurt trying to save someone’s life—”

            “He killed that woman—”

            “He was trying to save her!”

            “He’s accepted he was to blame, even if you won’t. Maybe you don’t have pangs of conscience when you kill someone, but James does. And I get that you only value people who go out and are violent in the name of law and order, but I think Uncle Ron would take umbrage with the notion that he’s done nothing with his life. Or Uncle Neville, or Aunt Luna, and they were all right there with you in the trenches. Approximately a thousand years ago.”

            “They all fought with me—“

            “Yeah, and then they grew up.”

            Dad presses his lips together. “This is infuriating. There’s no point in talking to you. You are hopeless.”

            He walks across the kitchen to the door. I don’t bother moving. “Good chat, Dad. I’ll be so busy here, _not_ doing anything about your list of demands.”

            Dad storms out through the door. Two seconds later, he turns around and comes right back. He points a thick finger at me and says, “You would have bloody been something if that Malfoy boy hadn’t ruined you.”

            He turns around and strides out.

            I suck my lower lip into my mouth.       

            Then I’m following him out the door.

            “Fuck you,” I tell him.

            Dad snaps, “Of course that’s the thing that gets your attention.”

            He’s still walking away from me. So I grab a stone off the ground, no large than a fingernail, and peg it at his head.

            Dad yelps, and turns around, grabbing the back of his head. Furious, he asks, “Did you just throw a _rock_ at me?”

            “Oh, legendary warrior of myth Harry Potter felled by a bloody pebble! You want to tell me I’m ruined, that I didn’t live up to your expectations, you knock yourself out, but don’t you dare lay it at his feet, because he’s the only good thing—”

            “He’s not your family! Our line stretches back to the Three Brothers, and in all those generations, you’re the only one addled enough to make friends with a Malfoy!”

            “He was the only one who would have me, you tit! The only one who’d have me as me instead of your son—”

            “Being my son isn’t a sin!”

            “According to who?!”

            Growling, Dad says, “You tell him to _stay out_ of our family affairs—”

            “He cared about Lily when I couldn’t be arsed! Do you think I would have gone done there and helped her if he didn’t make me feel like I should be a better man?”

            “Better? Does this seem better to you?”

            “What do you _want_?” I yelp, starting to lose patience. “Who is it you want me to be? You? Do you want me to be you? I’ve already inherited your worst qualities—”

            “I’m a good man! I’m loyal, hard working—”

            “Emotionally unavailable, shut down after trauma, too goddamn stubborn! I don’t even know which one of us I’m talking about, because I probably mean the both of us!”

            “So what is it now? You want me to tell you about the things I saw? The things I endured? You’ve never given a shit about what I went through—”

            “Because you use it like a weapon! Every time you bring up that story, it’s to tell us how we should just get over our problems, because it’s never as bad as what happened to you!”

            “And why shouldn’t I?”

            “Because we’re your fucking children, and there’s no way we could ever suffer as much as you! The only way you’d respect us is if we had, and is that what you really want? For me and Lily and James to go through what you did?”

            “Of course not—”

            “And yet you use it like a bloody cudgel to remind us how very little we are next to you, the boy who lived, the man whose head is so far up the arse of his own myth he can’t remember the taste of air!”

            I turn away, putting my hands to my face. I try catching my breath as Dad yells at me. “So you want me to talk about it, but you don’t want to hear it—”

            “I want you to do whatever it fucking takes to get better because you have to be better because I need a father and Mum needs a husband who’s fucking better than you!”

            Mouth trembling, Dad says, “Don’t bring your mother into this, you have no place—”

            Pounding my fist into my palm, I shout, “She is _my_ mum, and she should be happy, she shouldn’t have to _apologize_ , she shouldn’t have to spend her whole life apologizing for you when she could have been happy—”

            “If your mum and I were never together, you wouldn’t exist!”

            “Better I not exist than stay with a man who hit her!”

            I want to pull at my hair. Dad is going pale, and I feel this thing inside, that out of control thing. It’s threatening to do something and I know I’ll regret whatever it is.

            It’s like I’ve thrown a bomb. For a moment, neither of us say or do anything.

            Dad says shakily, “I never hit your—”

            “I saw! I heard you fighting, and I was scared, so I went to look, and I saw you do it. You were drunk and you hit her, and then she apologized to you! Do you know how disgusting that is? You hit her and she’s the one who told you she was sorry!” Dad puts his hands to his face, and I yell, “Don’t try and deny it! Don’t stand there and tell me I didn’t see what I saw!”

            Pulling his hands down over his beard, Dad says, “It happened. It happened once, and never again—”

            “Yeah, because you really turned around the ship on that one.”

            “I did everything I could to make it right—I slept on the sofa for a year because I didn’t trust myself around any of you—”

            “You didn’t leave! You should have just left—“

            “Your mother told me to stay—”

            “And who was that good for? You and your fucking nerve, coming to my home, telling me I’m ruined and tainted, telling me I’ve no reason to hate you, saying you did the best you could, which is lies! The best thing would have been to leave, but oh no, you couldn’t do that, because Harry Potter is a hero, and heroes get their reward, they get the girl and the kids, that’s just how it’s done.”

            “Do you think I don’t know it was the worst thing I’ve ever done? Do you think I didn’t hate myself?”

            “You’re incapable of hating yourself, because no person can hate themselves and be this fucking self absorbed!”

            “Do you want me to apologize? I’m sorry! I’m sorry I did it, that you saw it, but it wasn’t the only thing—I’ve tried and tried and tried—”

            “No! You haven’t! You tell yourself this story, this fairy tale of you being a good man, but you’re not! Everyone, _everyone_ tells stories about you, about what you’ve done, stories you’ve heard so many times you believe them, but you are not a story to me, you’re my father and you were a terrible one at that! You pretended to be kind, and you would pretend that you and I would be okay, and I would expect you to be better, and you failed, every single time, every single test of what a good father would do, and I was stupid enough for a long time to believe you could change, but I don’t anymore! You’ll be fifty, sixty, eighty, a hundred, telling yourself that everyone loved you because of something you did as a child, as if that was enough! It’s not enough!”

            “Stop it!”

            “You hate me because I’m the only one who sees through you, the only one who won’t put up with your shit, because I’m not a fan, I’m your child, and I don’t adore you, I can’t even stand you!” His wand is suddenly in his hand, but I can’t stop myself. “So you say the problem is with me—too Slytherin, too queer, too mean, too myself—but the problem is you! It’s always been you and your fucking stories! And you’re the hero so anyone who doesn’t believe you must be the villain! I was in Slytherin, so I must be a villain, I was best friends with a Malfoy, I must be a villain, I _love_ a Malfoy, so I must be a villain—it’s all shit! You’re treating this like a story instead of life, because you know that your life isn’t worth a thing!”

            “I said STOP!”

            At the top of my lungs, I yell, “Your life is pathetic and wasted and you hate me because I DIDN’T PEAK AT SEVENTEEN—”

            One second I’m yelling at him. Then his wand slashes through the air, in less time than it would take to blink. I stop shouting, because there’s this tingling across my face. It’s quite clear and defined, almost a line. I realize Dad has cut my face open.

            We stare at one another.

            Then the pain hits, and I’m wailing.

            I’m wailing, my hands going to my face, and they’re coming away slick with blood—he cut me open, Dad cut me open, blood is spilling from my face and I didn’t realize it would cool so quickly once it hit the air. I’m trying to push it back in, because it shouldn’t be outside me, blood is supposed to be inside—

            His hands are on me and I hear him say, “Albus, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it—”

            I struggle against him but he’s stronger than me and I’m scared he’ll hurt me again. “Get off! Get your hands off—”

            His face is near to mine, his terrible eyes that are my eyes. “I’ll fix this, let me fix this, I’m sorry, I’ll fix it—”

            My fingers latch onto my wand. Twisting against his grip, I shove my wand against his chest and say the only word I can think of to get him away from me.

            “EXPELLIARMUS!”

            He’s gone. I see a blur, and he’s not touching me and I can breathe again. My vision isn’t right. I can’t see everything. I’m panicking and the world is narrowing in.

            Something comes flying at me. Normally I would just bat it away, but for whatever reason, this time I reach up and catch it. I catch Dad’s wand in my blood-slick hand.

            My face—he cut my _face_ —

            Dad was thrown across the lawn. He struggles to his feet, trying to untangle his robes. Stepping back, terrified, I grip a wand in each hand. Dad looks at me, wide eyed and grey.

            “Are you INSANE?” I scream, and even I can tell I sound unhinged.

            Dad suddenly steps forward, and I jab my wand in his direction. He comes up short. “Albus—”

            “What’s WRONG with you?!”

            Beseeching me with his hands, Dad says, “Albus—Albus, you have to let me disarm you.”

            “Are you high?! Disarm me? I’m not letting you near me ever, ever again!”

            “I’m begging, Albus, I won’t hurt you, just give me my wand so I can disarm you. Please, Al, I’m begging you, I’m begging.”

            It hits me why.

            Staggered, I say, “In thirty years, have you _ever_ been disarmed?” The look on his face tells me the answer. I let out a laugh of disbelief, and my laughter tastes of blood. I look at his wand in my hand, then him. “I’m the master of the Elder Wand.”

            Dad drops to his knees. He puts his hands together. “Albus, listen to me. I am begging you—from the bottom of my heart—you have to give it back—”

            “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Not that you hurt me, but staying in control, being special—you only care about the fucking _wand_!”

            “If they found out, if anyone finds out, they’ll come for you—they’ll hurt you—Albus, I’m begging you, let me disarm you, I don’t want them to _hurt_ you—”

            “ _Hurt_ me?” I screech. I gesture wildly at my face and Dad flinches. “I’m already hurt and you’re the one who did it! Disarm me? If it’s the last thing I do, I will never let you have that kind of power again! By all the powers in the universe, I swear that if you ever try to lay a hand on me, I’ll go to the tomb, take the wand off Dumbledore’s body, and wreak havoc on the ground on which you stand, you fucking monster!”

            It’s rising inside me. It feels like hot wind. I have two wands, and I’m angry, and I’m the master of the Elder Wand. And I’m hurt, I’m hurt.

            Dad’s hair is being blown back from his face. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “Please—Al, _please_.”

            “How could you do this to me?” I wail.

            There’s a loud snap, but I don’t even bother to look. The thing inside me. It’s building, and this time I don’t want to control it. I’m hurt and all I want to do is hurt him too.

            “What the hell—” James is standing on the other side of the yard with beer, looking between us dumbstruck.

            Dad quickly gets to his feet. “James—James, you have to help me—”

            I hold tight to both wands, keeping mine pointed at Dad. My mouth tastes like pennies and dirt. I feel like I could rise off the ground, if I don’t let go.

            “What the hell is going on?” James yelps.

            I scream, “What’s going on is he cut my fucking face from ear to ear, the sick, sadistic bastard!”

            “It was an accident,” Dad says desperately.

            I’m set off.

            “ACCIDENT? Was it an accident when you called me ruined? When you said I was tainted? Was that an accident too?! Tell me again that it was an accident when you said I was ruined and I swear I’ll put a hole through your fucking head!”

            “I said all that,” Dad admits. “I said it and I’m sorry, I am so sorry, but I need to disarm you, please just let me disarm you—you don’t want this, I know you don’t want this—”

            “Why the fuck would he let you disarm him?” James says.

            Before Dad can answer, I do. “Because I disarmed him! Because no one’s disarmed him his whole bloody life and he just wants power! He can’t stand that someone else has the power but if I give it to him he’ll just hurt me!”

            “No,” Dad says, “no, I swear it, Al—please, I only want to keep you safe—”

            “SAFE?” I roar, and a gust of wind soars across the grass.

            James says, “The Elder Wand.” Dad nods. James stares at him.

            Then he drops the case of beer to the ground and walks towards me.

            “No,” I say, stepping back. “Stop! Stop it!”

            James keeps his distance, but he holds his hand out to me. “Albus—I need you to give me his wand.”

            “Have you lost your mind? Can you see what he did to me?”

            “I see, and I need you to trust me—”

            “Trust you?” I’m too hot. I’m burning inside. “You’ll only give it back to him and he’ll hurt me—”

            “I won’t—”

            “You always take his side! No matter what he does, you always take his side!”

            “Albus,” Dad pleads, “listen to your brother—”

            James yells at him, “Shut it!” I blink, off my guard. James inches closer to me, his hand out. “Albus, listen to me. I can’t force you to give it to me. I won’t touch my wand, and even if I did it wouldn’t matter, because you’ve always been stronger than me. You could send me into next year if you wanted, but you’re not going to do that, are you.”

            “Stop,” I beg. “Stop it—you’ll take his side, you always take his side—”

            “I didn’t call him, I called you! When I needed help, when I was at my worst, you were the one I called. The only person in the world I knew would come no matter what. Albus, you’re about to go off, and we know how bad it can be, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You saved me, and I’m going to need you to do it again, because I’m a disaster. We need to save one another, okay? I need you to help me. Please give me the wand.”

            “You’ll only give it to him,” I whisper.

            “I am your brother, and I love you. I promised to protect you. I need you to trust me.” I shake my head, crumbling. James continues to gaze into my eyes. “Think of it like this—if you give it to me and I’m telling the truth, you’ll know you can trust me for the rest of our lives. And if I turn around and let this get worse, you’ll know to never trust me again. Not many people get that kind of concrete proof. So I’m asking you—as your brother, as the man who needs you to save him—trust me.”

            Heat is rolling off me like clouds. The pressure inside my head—it’s unbearable.

            James takes another step forward. I look down at his palm.

            Then I lay Dad’s wand in his hand.

            I cringe, waiting for him to turn it on me. To throw it to Dad and for them to both put me down like a rabid dog. If Dad did this to me, what’s to stop James?

            James exhales. He gives me a little smile, then says, “ _Comminutus_.”

            The wand begins to crumble.

            Shocked, I stare at him. The heat, the pressure—it drains from me like poison being lanced. The wand falls apart, turning to ashes, until it’s not recognizable as anything at all. James tilts his hand, the grey powder drifting to the ground in a puff, and rubs his fingers together to get the rest off.

            For the first time in fourteen years, I feel like someone’s little brother.

            “What have you done?” Dad murmurs. We both look at him. He looks like he’s going to be sick. His knees are shaking.

            Easily, James draws his wand and slips in front of me, putting himself between Dad and I. James aims his wand at Dad and says with barely contained rage, “Anyone who hurts my brother isn’t getting his wand back. If you ever lay a hand on him again, I won’t be the only one in this family missing one.”

            “James,” Dad whispers.

            Twisting his wand, James growls, “You’re not worthy of the Elder Wand. You’re barely even a man. If you come near him again, if you dare try and disarm him, if you _tell_ anyone he disarmed you, it won’t matter that I don’t have my dominant hand. All I need to do is hate you enough to cast an Unforgivable. I hate you _more_ than enough for that.” Moving forward, James lowers his voice so deep it nearly shakes the ground. “ _Get. Out_.”

            I stand behind James, trembling. Dad’s going to fight back. He always has some trick, some way to win the bloodiest fight. James is protecting me, but I’m terrified.

            Dad looks at me, and I pull into myself, clenching my wand as tight as I can.

            Dad opens his mouth, then closes it. He falls back, saying helplessly, “I am so sorry.”

            He disapparates, the crack making me cry out.

            A moment, James drops his arm. I see him say something under his breath, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if I’m going to fall over or piss myself. I feel like I’m going to vomit.

            James turns around and quickly strides to me. “Hey,” he says, pushing my hair back from my face. “You’re okay. It’s okay now, he’s gone, you’re okay.”

            I fall against him, and James squeezes his arm around me. I press my broken face against his as he holds me up.            

            “I’m always on your side,” James says fiercely. “And you’re always on mine. No matter who’s against us. You’re family. It means fuck all to him, but it’s something to us, and that’s what counts. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

            I close my eyes and try to scream, but nothing comes out.

 

My hands are shaking so terribly that I can’t lift the water to my face. I’m standing over the sink, trying to wash away the blood, but it only slips through my fingers and down the drain.

            James moves around to my side, roughly cupping his hand beneath the tap. “Hold still.” He splashes my mouth, then scrubs at my face. The water gets up my nose and I start to cough. A towel is thrust in front of my face. “Dry off and let’s see what we’re working with.”

            I pat my face with my jittering hands, then drop the towel in the sink. James puts his hand to my chest to straighten me up a bit. He looks at me and cringes. I immediately look into the mirror.

            There’s a bright red line across my face, starting at my right jaw, cutting across my mouth, and stopping at my left temple. It barely misses my eye. My face is still pink with blood. It’s destroyed my shirt.

            “Fuck,” I hear James say. “I told you—I was never good with healing spells as it is, and now? You need to go to St. Mungo’s.”

            “No! I’m not going there—everyone talks, you know that I know everyone talks and everything ends up in the papers—”

            “Yeah, but do you want a big bloody scar across your face the rest of your life?”

            “I can do it—I’ll do it myself.”

            “Look at your hands. You can’t even wash your face off. Listen, I know people—I’ll call someone to come over here—”

            “Scorpius,” I say suddenly. I fumble for my wand.

            “Do not do a spell right now, your mind’s not in it—”

            I scream, “Where is it supposed to be?!” James puts up his hand, leaning away from me. I stick my wand in the air, shutting my eyes tight. I try to bring down the apparition spell—it’s not budging! I hiss in frustration. “He’s good at healing spells—he’s at home with his father—he can fix this, he’ll know what to do—”

            “Stop,” James says, pulling out his cell. “Tell me his number, I’ll get him to come here—”

            “I can do this, I can do this—”

            Dad slashing his wand through the air. My skin splitting open. The way Eric’s did. Skin is not supposed to do that.

            The spell shatters, and I apparate.

 

I land in the Grey Room. Unlit fireplace, drapes drawn, but the room somehow filled with grey light with no discernible source.

            I’ve hardly gotten my bearings when there’s a loud crack. Nibbly is suddenly in front of me, fingers pointed at me in some strange pattern.

            Just as abruptly, she relaxes her hand. She smiles. “Mr. Potter.”

            “Where’s Scorpius? I need to see Scorpius.”

            Nibbly steps out of my way, pointing above herself. “In his room. Alone. You should say hello to my poor, lonely master.”

            I’m running out the door before she’s even finished her sentence. I bound up the stairs, and I don’t know if there’s anything left inside me anymore. My insides feel empty except for the need to see him. Something has been broken and Scorpius is the only one who can fix it. He loves me, and he’ll take care of me, and if I can just see him, he’ll make everything better.

            I need things to be better.

            I start to feel like I’m melting as I stride down the hall to his room. I’ve barely held it together over the last half hour, and I need to collapse. I don’t have to keep this all to myself. For the first time in my life, all I want is to grab onto another person and hold on for dear life.

            The door is closed, so I wrench the handle and nearly fall through. I open my mouth to say his name, to ask him for help. I need help.

            That disappears. Because they’re sitting on the sofa face to face, and all I see is his mouth on her mouth and her hands on his hands.      

            They jerk away from one another, Scorpius jumping to his feet. “Albus—it isn’t what you—” His eyes go even wider at the sight of me. “Merlin’s beard, what happened—”

            I’m laughing.

            I step backwards, away from what I knew would happen, eventually. This was an inevitability. Did I not say it? I said he’d leave me for Rose, and now she’s sitting there staring at me and I imagine she can still feel his mouth on hers. A sound come out of my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or shriek.

            I apparate again.

 

I land by my fireplace. I hear a shout from the kitchen, and a second later James is in the doorway. “That was fast—”

            Drawing my wand, I cut it through the air, activating the wards. As I turn away, I see James go flying towards the door. I don’t know if it opens before he goes through it. I don’t care.

            As I limp down the hallway, I wave my wand over the front door. The whole place goes into lock down, anti apparition spell forming a shell, shields protecting the house. The fireplace will have disappeared entirely. No one can get in. No one can get out.

            I make it as far as the bedroom, then I drop onto the floor. I drag in a breath, and it hurts. I wrap my arms around my knees, and my helplessness and fear and rage spills through.

            I’m alone.

            It’s hard to breathe. Everything I feel is _too much_. I close my eyes and struggle to hang on.

            I said he’d leave me for her and he is. He lied and said he was with his father, but he lied so he could be with her. There’s no telling how long they’ve been doing this behind my back.

            I was so foolish. I let myself hope. I know better than that.

            Because this world is not a place for hope. No, this is a place where fathers hate their sons. Where heroes aren’t good people. Where the vulnerable see their lives stripped from them. Where people kill themselves rather than see themselves as lesser. Where daughters die from overdoses and sons lose limbs and mothers stay with fathers no matter the sin. This is a world where determination and loyalty and love is never rewarded.

            The floor is trembling beneath me. I’m holding on by a thread. Magic is straining against my seams, struggling to let loose. If I do, the whole house will come down.

            Does it matter?

            I tighten my grip on myself. I’m a bomb. That’s what I am. Dad hates me because he knows I’ll only hurt everyone. I’m not a good person. I can’t hold onto people. There’s a reason I’m unloved. There’s something wrong with me.

            What if I did let go?

            I’m sitting on a geyser. If I step out of the way, if I let this pressure release, maybe it would be better. If I did what everyone expects and destroy it all. It would be such a relief.

            All I want is to let go.

            There’s a strange animal noise. A keening. It’s not me. I force my eyes open, breathing hard.

            Floating in the air above me is Zamora. The magic rolling off me is so intense that I see it in the air like waves. It’s pushed her up off the ground. She’s flailing her legs, yowling at the top of her lungs.

            Even with all that, she’s struggling to get to me. Cats don’t do that. Cats run at the first sign of trouble. But not her. Zamora is clawing at the air, looking at me desperately. She’s fighting with all she has to get to me.

            Destroying everything means destroying her too.

            I have to stop. I don’t know how, but I need to stop.

            I loosen my hold on myself. I finally see that everything in the room, save myself, has risen into the air. My bed, my lamps, even the blankets, they’re all floating.

            It doesn’t matter if I’m alone. There is nothing wrong with me. I’m allowed to be angry.

            And I am so angry.

            I am enraged. And rage is my super power.

            I am the master of the Elder Wand.

            If I wanted, I could rule the world. The power is right there at my fingertips. I’m lord of something called the Death Stick. Everyone would expect me to use it in the cruellest way possible.

            But no one knows me.

            I know myself.

            Leaning forward, I take Zamora with both hands. I pull her to my chest, and cuddle her close.

            The furniture all drops with a thud, but I hardly notice. I pet Zamora’s head as she wails, struggling to get as close to me as she can. She’s a warm, soft weight. She reminds me I’m not a bomb. I’m a man. One who’s been wronged many times over. I’m the one who survived without anyone else.

            “Best girl,” I whisper to Zamora. “Prettiest girl. Perfect girl.”

            Outside, I hear voices yelling. Trying to get my attention. One of them is Scorpius.

            I don’t care. I wave my wand, and everything is silent.   

            We sit here, the best cat in the world, and me, master of the Elder Wand, and we block out the terrible world.


	20. Chapter 20

When I hear an owl beating at the window, I ignore it. I ignore it like every other thing Scorpius has sent my way.

            Since last Friday, he’s sent Aedesia so many times she fainted in my back yard, and wouldn’t rouse no matter how many times I poked her with a stick. He’s sent messengers and letters and spells, all of them saying the same thing. That it’s not what I thought, that she kissed him and not the other way around, that he wants to talk to me, that he wants to be with me, whatever, whatever, whatever. I didn’t even bother looking at the first dozen, just burned them all.

            He even sent Nibbly, who bitterly apologized for her part. I did the only thing I knew would bother her. I smiled sweetly and asked to hug her. She reluctantly agreed, and as I rubbed her back, I told her what a credit to her race she was. How I’d be sure all the Muggle borns and half breeds would know what a loving elf she was towards our kind. She, predictably, lost her mind, and left a scorch mark on my lawn no wand work will erase.

            I haven’t replied to him. I don’t intend to. He’s a liar. I thought he was a good man because he acts like one, but he did exactly what I was scared of, and that’s not my fault. Scorpius led me on, let me think he loved me enough to stay with me. But no, he wants to be abused by my cousin until he dies. He’s chosen his own punishment, and it’s no concern of mine.

            Nothing is really a concern of mine. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and I’m sitting on my sofa with _Titus Andronicus_ and Zamora in my lap. Usually it would be a workday, but I scheduled today and tomorrow off weeks ago. Harry Potter Day and all that. The celebration is happening tonight. I will not be in attendance.

            If I’ve dealt with an over abundance of communication from Scorpius, Dad is firmly wedged on the opposite end of the spectrum. I’ve not heard a word from him. Mum sent Switchley the day after it happened, but I didn’t bother reading the message. I knew it would only be excuses. That’s all I’ll ever get from her on the topic of Dad, and if that makes her happy, so be it, but I don’t have to listen to them.

            I’ve kept an eye out. Just in case Dad decides to pop out from somewhere with a new wand to disarm me, or hires someone else to do it. I wouldn’t put it past him.

            I find that there’s a certain peace in being master of the Elder Wand. Knowing that up in Scotland there’s an instrument of magic that belongs to me, that no one else can truly command, is actually a confidence boost. I never expected I would be anyone important, save Harry Potter’s son, and I’m still not. The fact of the matter is, it’s rarely famous people that change the world. It’s all us little people, working together. I’m content in the shadows.

            Scratching Zamora behind the ears, I flip the page and continue ignoring the owl. My windows are all locked and warded. The world can piss off. We’re good in here.

            There’s a loud slam, and we both jump.

            The owl is huge and grey, wings outstretched, with a package in its talons. Across the lid are written the words ‘FROM LILY, YOU TIT!’

            Letting out a long sigh, I think about it. The owl looks so determined that I worry it will do itself a harm if I don’t at least accept the package. “Want to go bird hunting?” I ask, dislodging Zamora.           

            Ten minutes later, after I heal the talon scratches on my hands, and coerce Zamora into letting loose of the feathers in her mouth, I sit down on the sofa with the box. It’s fairly wide, but not too heavy. I have no idea what Lily might have sent me. The last time she got me a present was—when _was_ the last time? It’s far more likely I’ve been sent some pieces of incriminating evidence she wants me to hide. Skeptical, I open the lid.

            An envelope sits on a bed of rich, emerald fabric. I look at it a moment, then withdraw the letter from inside.

 

_Albus,_

_Your taste in fashion is abominable, so I made something that would actually look good on you, and you’re going to wear it to the party tonight. James says you probably won’t be coming (and he’s being obnoxiously cryptic about the whole thing), but I don’t believe it, because it’s the social event of the season, and not even you are so reclusive as to miss it._

_In all seriousness, I would very much appreciate if you joined us tonight. I feel that I should go, but after recent events (and not so recent) I don’t know if I’m very welcome. The longer I’m sober, the more I find how deeply I care about the opinion of others, even if they’re often misguided and unwelcome. But I should like to go despite my fears. I want to be there for Mum and Dad, to show them that I’m getting better. I know I’m in no position to ask for favours (this small thing still doesn’t make a dent), but I think we should both be there._

_If you are not at the Hall by 2030 hours, I will make quite a nuisance of myself, starting by introducing myself to all your neighbours and enlisting them in bombing you out of the little hole you’ve made for yourself._

_I know you’re not inclined to come out with us. James says things may have gone wrong with Scorpius. Fuck him. Tonight is about Potters, and that means you too. Please, please come._

_Your loving, considerate sister,_

_Lily_

 

            Humble too, the bitch.

            Tossing the letter aside with a frown, I run my hand over the fabric. I think it might actually be raw silk, or a very close approximation. I certainly don’t own anything else this expensive.

            I’m not going. Of course I’m not. Everyone will be there. By this point, Scorpius and Rose have probably dropped the pretense and let everyone else know. I’d rather shit slugs than have to see them fawning over one another.

            And I’m certainly not going wherever my father is. It would be the most uncomfortable family dinner in history, only this time there would be photographers. I’m not putting myself through that just for some facsimile of togetherness. My absence will speak volumes.

            Will he think I’m not there because I’m scared?

            My fingers stall in their explorations. I feel a certain dread come over me.

            I bet he thinks I’m scared of him. Dad probably thinks I’m shitting myself in terror, that I’m hiding at home because I’m afraid he’ll hurt me again. He’ll be relieved I’m not there.

            He didn’t want me there to begin with. He did everything he could to make sure I wouldn’t show my face.

            Wait. _Wait_. If I stay home—I’m giving him literally everything he wants. My jaw tightens as I think about it. Dad must be happy right now. I was supposed to join the rest of the family an hour ago for commemorative photos. This is perfect for him. A family portrait without his tainted middle child.

            He thinks I’m afraid of him. And I am, but fuck him for that. What can he do to me? I doubt he has a new wand already. Let him bloody explain that to the press. ‘My son disarmed me after I sliced his face open—what? Yes, it’s a marvelous turn out.’

            If I go, I have to look at all of them.

            But if I stay here—it’s _convenient_ for them.

            “Oh no,” I say, pushing myself up. “I am anything but convenient. Zamora!” I straighten my shoulders, grim with determination. “It’s time to make a genuine effort.”

            With all the gravity of the situation, Zamora says, “ _Mrow_.”

 

From the moment I start walking towards the entryway, I have to reconcile myself to the fact that many people will be looking at me.

            Most people are already inside. Dinner is about to be served, and it takes an act of the cosmos to separate witches and wizards from food. However, there are still a few dozen people loitering out front, either to get some air, or those who weren’t able to get tickets, trying their luck to get in.

            Almost immediately, I hear a gasp, then someone whispering, “Is that Albus Potter?”

            The murmurs begin in earnest, coming at me from all sides. Every instinct I possess tells me to put my head down, but this is not the occasion for the usual tricks. I’m here to prove I’m unafraid, and I won’t accomplish that by acting like a beaten dog. So I pretend like I can’t hear them, and I walk on, keeping my head high.

            People part for me, which is a new experience. I see them casting me startled looks. Let them stare.

            “Albus!” I glance over. A photographer holds his camera with both hands, looking for a moment like he’s forgotten how to speak. He stutters, “P-Picture for the _Prophet_?”

            I look him up and down, just to fluster him—which it does—then shrug. I turn towards him. How do people pose for photos? Fuck it, I’ll wing it. I keep my left side to him, tilting my head a touch.

            The flash goes off, and the photographer blushes. “Brilliant,” he says faintly. I give him the barest of smiles and keep walking.

            Good heavens, is this really how attractive people are treated? If I’d known I could achieve this with, oh, two hours obsessing in the bathroom mirror, I might have tried this ages ago.

            The Hall is a fairly recent addition to London. After the war, there were so many memorials and celebrations and large gatherings of all types that there was a need for somewhere outside the Ministry to plant them all. So they built this place in Greenwich Park and now it’s where all the big events take place. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. Invisible to the Muggles, of course. Any Muggle who tries to come near it has a sudden urge to turn and walk in the opposite direction. Apparently the Prime Minister was very irate about the construction, but that’s neither here nor there.

            Two aurors stand on either side of the silver, reflective doors. Good. I see aurors all over the place. With the maniac still on the loose, they had better be. Tonight would be the perfect opportunity for the monster to attack. The only requirement for entry is being able to afford the tickets, which are obscenely overpriced, ostensibly to raise funds for the War Fund. Tomorrow will be safer. It’s a much more select crowd, all famous names who had to be invited.

            I walk up the steps, keeping my pace measured. It’s all very calculated. I don’t want them to think I’m panicking. And I don’t want to panic. The best way to do that is to act calm, and maybe it will eventually be natural.

            I see the aurors glancing at one another, but I ignore them. When I come to the top of the steps, I stop, and look at myself in the mirrored doors.

            I barely recognize myself. The Albus Potter I know is inconspicuous, a little shaggy, a little muted, in old Muggle clothes with brown eyes. Designed to draw the least amount of attention as possible.

            Tonight, I am dressed so that everyone _has_ to look at me.

            The green robes are cut quite snugly against my body, but in such a way that I look slender instead of skinny. Depending on which way I turn, the light brings out the pattern of snake skin. Silver chains hold the waistcoat together. The pocket watch Granddad gave me, worth so much I had to fetch it last second from my vault at Gringott’s, rests in one of the vest pockets. The trousers are cut halfway down my shins, and I sheered away the pelt on my legs to show off my skin. I brought out the pointed, silver ankle boots Hugo gave me for my twenty third birthday that I’ve never worn. The cape of the robes falls just below my knees, and its collar is high and severe, making me look taller, more intimidating. I wear a snake rope necklace, constantly at a slow slither around my neck. It is easily the most dressed up I have ever been in my life.

            As for the rest—I admit, I may have met the challenge. I hit my body with every single spell I could think of, and for once I’m not ashy. Instead, I’m olive brown. My hair has been shaved all the way to the scalp on the sides, but my hair left long down the middle, from front to back. It may even be a bit longer than usual—and it may also be teased a bit. I’ve managed, after several tries, to draw cat’s eyes on my lids with vibrant emerald liner, making them thick and obvious. And for the first time in public for many, many years, my eyes are Evans’ green.

            See, here’s the thing. I dress like I don’t care most of the time, and I claim I don’t know how to make myself look any better. That may not be entirely true. Sometimes I think I have a tendency to believe my own myths.

            Inhaling deeply, I tell the doors, “Albus Potter,” and they immediately open for me.

            The inner lobby is decorated in shimmering golds. The floor beneath my feet swirls in pattern. There are quite a few people just inside the doors, looking for a quieter place to talk than the larger hall. I can hear music, and hundreds of voices—and an elephant. Okay, why not?

            Again, people turn to look at me as I walk. I just need to keep my head up.

            There’s an outraged gasp, and then Lily is descending on me. She stops a few steps away, mouth agape. “Albus Severus Potter!” I draw my head back, waiting to hear that I’ve messed something up. Lily is resplendent in a complicated white gown, her hair piled into the most elaborate braid I’ve ever seen. She looks me over, then snaps, “Damn it, Albus! You were supposed to make an effort, but you weren’t supposed to look better than me!”

            I roll my eyes. All right, I also blush.

            Lily swoops forward, tugging at my robes, pushing them aside to check the fit. “See, I knew that if you just made an effort—”

            “Yes, fine.” I push her hand away. Begrudgingly, and also admiringly, I tell her, “These are quite nice.”

            “Oh, Lily, I don’t want to hear about your _designs_ —”

            “I don’t. I’m just saying, this turned out all right. Thank you, by the way.”

            Lily shrugs. “I didn’t want you embarrassing me by looking the way you normally do.” I shake my head, looking away, as Lily reaches into a pocket concealed in the gossamer of her skirt. She pulls out a small pouch, looking at it, then holds it out to me. “This is for you.”

            Automatically suspicious, I take it, wondering what else she wants me to wear. But as soon as I hold it in my hand, I feel the familiar weight of money. Not much, but it’s definitely money. “What is this?”

            “Ten galleons.” Lily looks down instead of at me. “Granddad’s been paying me for work around the Burrow. Not much, before you accuse me of taking advantage of him. Just sickles, here and there. This is what I’ve saved up, the past two weeks. I don’t know if it makes it any better for you, but a lot of it is from cleaning out the gutters.” Lily pauses, then shudders. “By _hand_ , because they’re so old they started to fall apart the second I pointed my wand at them. I know it’s not a lot, but there will be more. Because I got a job.”

            “You what,” I say flatly.

            Turning pink, still avoiding my eyes, Lily says, “You are looking at Ottery St. Catchpole’s newest barista. At Starbucks. I work at Starbucks. Or I will, starting on Friday. It is humiliating and I’m already dreading it. Except if I’m ever thrown out on the streets again, with an audience, without doing everything in my power to prevent it, I will cut my own throat. So this is what it’s come to. No, you may not visit me at work, and no, I cannot make you a caramel macchiato on command, and any teasing on the subject will result in a thrashing. But I have a job, and I’ll pay you back what I can.”

            I’m flabbergasted. Lily seems to take that as a rebuke, so she continues, “I know it’s not much—and I have so many other people to pay back—but I’m going to. I know it’s only 10 galleons, but I’ll do it ten thousand more times if I have to. I know—I know we won’t ever be friends, you and I, and I don’t know that I want to be, because you’re terrible, but—I have been an awful sister. I don’t want to be that anymore. I don’t know if—if I’m ready to be sober, or be a different person, or let go of dreams. But I’m ready to be your sister. That means something to me. It means a great deal. I hope…I hope it does to you as well.”

            After a few seconds, rolling the pouch over in my hand, I finally find my words. “I cannot recall the last time I said this to you, and I may never say it again, but—” Narrowing my eyes, I say almost as a question, “I’m proud of you, Lily.”

            We look at one another.

            Lily shudders again. “That felt weird.”

            I nod emphatically, “So weird. We don’t need to do that again any time soon.” I look around. Nearby is a golden well, saying that it’s accepting donations. I toss the pouch at it, and surprisingly get it in one. “For the orphans.”

            Lily smirks. “You don’t want to ruin the lines of your suit. Good.”

            I smile, and then we both awkwardly reach out to hug. She’s much smaller than I am, resembling Mum but not her athleticism. Her ornate hair presses into my face. I can feel her shoulder blade under my hand.

            “I love you,” Lily murmurs.

            “I love you too.”

            “Albus.” We both look up. Scorpius is standing not too far from us, staring. New dress robes, in silver. His mouth is hanging open, looking at me.

            Lily steps back, and says quietly, “Do you want to come in with me, or do you need a moment?”

            Thinking about it, I answer, “I’ll find you at the table.”

            Lily nods, slipping away. As she passes Scorpius, she makes an aggressive feint towards him. Scorpius instinctively puts his hands up, leaning away, and Lily walks on with a sneer.

            So maybe we are related.

            I stand in place as Scorpius moves towards me. Eyes dazed, he simply says, “Wow.”

            “What do you want?”

            Glancing around, Scorpius comes closer, lowering his voice. “Did you read anything I sent you?”

            “I skimmed one or two and burned the rest.” I look past his shoulder. “Sure you want to do this here? What if your date finds out?”

            “You _are_ my date—”

            “I’m here alone.”

            Scorpius closes his eyes briefly. There are unfamiliar purple half moons under his eyes. “I’ve been trying to tell you—it wasn’t what it looked like.” I snort, and Scorpius insists, “No, it wasn’t, and I know, I _know_ , that every person who has ever cheated uses that excuse, but I’m not going to tell you any differently because it’s the truth, so would you please just let me explain?”

            “It looked like your supposedly ex girlfriend kissing you. How long have you two been doing this behind my back?”

            “I’m trying to tell you—Albus. That was the first time since Rose and I broke up that we were alone in a room together—”

            “And the chemistry was just unbearable, so whoops, you’re back together—”

            “We’re not!” Scorpius stops himself, making his voice as quiet as he can. “Did she ask me to get back together? Yes. But I told her no.”

            “Was that before or after your tongue was in her mouth?”

            “My tongue—” Scorpius leans forward, hissing, “My tongue was not _anywhere_. I am not with Rose, I’m with you. I love _you_. You have to believe me.”

            “No.”

            Scorpius shakes his head. “What do you mean, no?”

            “I mean—I took the risk, knowing what was likely to happen. And it has. I know I said I’d take anything you gave me, that I loved you so much I would take any little scrap. As it turns out, I have more self respect than that. I’m not going to let this drag on, you telling me it’s only me when we both know it’s not. Pretending like I don’t know our time is limited. I thought it would be better to have anything with you than nothing. That was naïve. So, no, I will not be accepting this lame, cliched excuse, and there will be no more of this failed experiment. At least we can both be comforted by the fact that you didn’t actually break my heart. Not only because I don’t have one, as is common knowledge. But because I know that I’m the one who tried, and you were the one who fucked it up. I know I tried, and I can be proud of that. Now—if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make my family _very_ uncomfortable.”

            I move around him, and my pulse hasn’t quickened at all. Do these clothes have some sort of spell in them? Like a confidence/attractiveness spell?

            I’m pulled up short by my elbow. Scorpius puts himself in front of me, eyes a bit crazed. “That is not the final word on this.”

            “I beg to differ—”

            “No, because there are two of us in this, and just because you want to be cynical and protect yourself from being hurt, it doesn’t mean that I have to put up with it. You don’t believe me? I can prove it to you.”

            “You can’t—”

            “I can.”

            “How?”

            “I can show you the memory.” I scoff, trying to turn away, but Scorpius gets in my face. “I can show you exactly what happened, exactly what was said, and then you’ll know that what I’m telling you is true.”

            “Memories can be modified.”

            “Do you honestly think I would do that to you?” Scorpius narrows his eyes. Hurt, he says, “Do you?”

            “I need to get inside—”

            “Albus—I love you. What you and I have—it is so special, it’s impossibly special, and I’m not going to give up just because of a misunderstanding. Can you not trust me? We’ve always trusted one another, always had one another’s side. You can’t tell me that’s over.”

            I look in his silver eyes. “The only side I’m on is my own. Best of luck with Rose. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly miserable with one another.”

            “Albus—”

            “Goodbye, Scorpius,” I say with complete finality, and push past him into the Hall.

 

The Hall, already large to begin with, has been expanded to several times its size. People from all around the world have come for tonight’s party, and there’s easily a thousand people here, if not more. The vaulted ceilings are lit only by small fairy lights along the arches, and a silk dragon lazily drifts and twirls high above us all.

            There are several places to go. The main floor is largely tables set up for the banquet. In front of the tables is a smaller dance floor, and above that is a stage where—good lord. They’ve wheeled out Celestina Warbeck’s daughter Saturnia, the Liza Minelli of witches. She’s warbling some of the old standards. To my left, there’s a different dance floor, much larger, with a crowd dancing to Midnight Centaur, which has far too many saxophones for my liking. To the right, there’s some kind of performance happening, but the crowd is all standing, and I can’t quite tell what’s happening. A pink flame keeps shooting up above them, to applause each time.

            Surveying my options, I see dozens of familiar faces. Aurors everywhere, looking tense. I let my eyes drift across the massive room, taking it all in.

            I find my family at a table on the main floor. They’re almost on the dance floor, where people are swing dancing to ‘Bring That Wand Over Here, Daddy,’ the song that launched a thousand double entendres and leers. James in his black dress robes, Lily in her white dress, Mum in green and gold, because of course she’s dressed in the Harpies’ colours.

            Then there’s Dad. In the same black robes he’s worn to the past five years of celebrations, with his Order of Merlin medal. A well wisher stops by the table, and Dad gives him a pinched smile. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying the attention.

            There’s an empty seat at the table. Might as well fill it.

            I walk through the tables, still not used to the stares. I might as well become accustomed to it. I’m going to get a lot worse than stares once I sit down at the table.

            “Is that my godson?!” I turn just in time to see Uncle Neville marching up to me. He throws his arms open, and I’m being crushed against his chest. “Albus! So good to see you! I was starting to worry you were going to be antisocial, deprive us of your presence.” He pushes me back, still squeezing me by the upper arms. “Look at you now! Aren’t you sharp!” Before I can say anything, Neville hollers over his shoulder. “Hannah! Albus is here!”

            “Hi,” I manage to get out.

            Aunt Hannah is suddenly hugging me as well, with the same enthusiasm as Uncle Neville. “Albus!” she shrieks. “It’s been so long!”

            She smells of sherry, and Uncle Neville smells of ale, and that’s just how they get through life. Good for them. I’d drink too if there wasn’t obviously a predisposition to addiction in my immediate family.

            They pepper me with questions, not letting me answer any of them, talking over one another, and laughing. They are the two merriest people I’ve ever know, and I’m clearly not good with that.

            I’ve barely said three words when Neville claps me on the shoulder several times, saying, “Best let you get a move on—obviously running behind, better get in there with your family! Smashing to see you, Albus, do come visit.”

            “Yes, do!” Hannah says, and they push me onwards like a mother bird forcing a child from the nest.

            A touch overwhelmed, I keep walking. Someone’s waving frantically at me. Hugo. He’s looking at me with the biggest smile. He’s also sitting with the rest of his family.

            If I avoid Rose for the rest of our lives, that makes it comfortable for her.

            “I am _not_ convenient,” I remind myself under my breath, and walk to the Granger-Weasley table.

            Hugo jumps up, giving me an enthusiastic squeeze. “Bloody hell, you clean up nice!”

            “Why does everyone have to sound so shocked?”

            “Because we are.” He steps back, shaking his head in appreciation at my outfit. Of course, he looks flawless, in a completely ridiculous set of dress robes in a whole rainbow of colours that’s somehow perfect on him. “I always knew you had it in you!”

            “I’m going to start getting offended.” I glance around the table. “Happy Harry Potter Day, everyone.” I hold a hand down to Uncle Ron, who shakes it.

            “You know,” Uncle Ron says, “for my birthday we had a potluck.”

            “Would you rather have all this?” Aunt Hermione asks. “All this fuss?”

            Uncle Ron shrugs. “At least once. Maybe when I’m a hundred.”

            Rose is staring at me with desperate eyes. Like she wants to say something. I let my eyes move over her like she’s invisible, turning them to the dance floor.

            “Good heavens,” I say. “Is Tim still with the girl from the rally?”

            Tim is spinning a woman with short blond hair around the dance floor. For all Tim’s deficits, he’s a splendid, confident dancer, and she seems to be a match for him. They’re completely dominating everyone else, lost in their own little world.

            “Was she there?” Hugo asks.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, you must have been distracted, what with your call to action.”

            He laughs, and claps my shoulder. “You’re late. What, were you trying to make an entrance?”

            “I had my doubts as to whether I’d show at all. But here I am.”

            “Lucky us.”

            “Are we having drinks after this?”

            Hugo grimaces reluctantly. “I don’t know, mate, we might be here pretty late.”

            “Fine, fine. Well, everyone enjoy yourself. I’m going to go sit in uncomfortable silence with my parents and siblings. Have fun.”

            As I turn, I see Rose working herself up to something. I’d prefer she didn’t. Of course, I get about two steps before I hear her chair push back, and she’s saying, “Albus, wait—”

            I turn back around before she can lay a finger on me, putting my hand in her face. I keep it solid and flat, a complete repudiation. I don’t want to hear a word come off her lying tongue. I see her startled eyes above my fingertips, and the way she pulls back slightly.

            I leave my hand there a long moment, then I continue walking towards my family’s table.

            They’re waiting for me with a mixture of trepidation, watchfulness, and dread. Lily, who I had such a nice moment with a few minutes ago, now looks completely put out. James watches me with a raised eyebrow.

            I stand behind my chair, and say, “Happy Harry Potter Day, everyone. Sorry I’m late.” I take my seat, sniffing.

            Immediately, a dish of rice pilaf appears in front of me, and a glass of champagne. I feel Dad’s eyes on me, his gaze so heavy and tense that I feel like my outfit is now de facto armour.

            “You look very nice,” Mum says faintly. She’s gazing at me with a mixture of melancholy and longing. I smile, accepting the compliment as I lay my napkin across my lap.

            Picking up my glass, I raise it towards my father. “Happy birthday, Dad.” There’s a twitch in his cheek. I look directly into his eyes as I sip from the glass.

            I’m not going to be fucking cowed by a man who hasn’t done anything of use since he was a pubescent boy.

            I start to eat as though unaware of the mood. It’s impossible to know how to talk to Dad right now. There’s literally no good choice. So I remind myself that I’m on my side, and my side alone.

            James turns in his seat, grabbing the first server to walk by. “We’re going to need _several_ drinks.”

            “I’d rather we didn’t,” Lily says.

            Mournfully, James amends, “Never mind, then.”

            Everyone sits in the predicted uncomfortable silence, and I eat my dinner.

 

I’ve been here a half hour when the knocking starts.

            None of us are speaking to one another. My presence is clearly putting a damper on things. Then again, Mum and Dad were content to let Lily live on the streets, and James _did_ destroy Dad’s wand, so maybe it’s a collective effort. People keep dropping by to shake Dad’s hand or say hello to us. We smile without letting it reach our eyes, and they move on relatively quickly.

            Lily’s reticence notwithstanding, I’m on my second glass of champagne. There’s literally no one alive who could ask me _not_ to drink at this event.

            I’m glad Granddad’s sitting with Bill and Fleur. If he had to sit with us and deal with our shit, I think it would break his heart.

            Then the strangest thing happens. It’s like a tapping inside my brain. Like someone is very politely knocking at a door.

            I pause, glass in hand. I’m not having a stroke, am I? I carefully set down the glass as the tapping continues. Trying to attract as little attention as possible, I slowly turn my head, searching for whoever’s attempting to step into my head.

            It’s easy to find Scorpius. He’s seated at a table with his father and several old guard Slytherins. He is gazing at me with unblinking focus. The polite tapping comes again.

            Brow furrowing, I mouth, ‘ _No_.’ Scorpius frowns, frustrated, and I turn back to my drink.

            I get about ten seconds reprieve before the knocking begins anew, faster and louder than before.

            Angry, I glare at him. Scorpius is chewing on his lip in concentration. ‘ _Stop it_ ,’ I mouth.

            ‘ _No_ ,’ he replies.

            Gritting my teeth, I try to ignore him. James has turned around in his seat, and I see him raise a none too subtle Agincourt salute in the Malfoys’ direction. The tapping stops, but the unfortunate truth is that no one in that family gives up easily. I’m sure some manner of escalation is headed my way.

            And it comes two minutes later. There’s a dry clearing of the throat behind me, and a server holds out a tray with a note card on it. “For you, sir.”

            “Take it back.”

            “Sir, I was offered a considerable sum of money if I ensured you read—”

            I grab the card off the tray. “Fine. Okay? Carry on.” Shaking my head, I turn it over and read the scribbled words.

            ‘I swear by all the powers in the universe, if you don’t let me in I’ll get up on that stage and declare my love for you in song.’   

            The colour drains from my face. Staring at Scorpius, I murmur, “You wouldn’t dare.”

            Scorpius raises his shoulders, clearly ready to get up and do it.

            I’d rather die.

            I’ve clenched my hands, destroying the note card. Sucking on the insides of my cheeks, I consider my options. Refuse to be intimidated by Scorpius fucking Malfoy, and endure a public humiliation the likes of which I can’t even imagine. He’ll probably improvise the thing on the spot. Or I could let him into my head for a few seconds with some weak justification for snogging my cousin.

            The choice is clear.

            Hissing, I drop the note card on the table and turn in my seat. I cross my arms with annoyance and glare into his eyes.

 

_It’s early evening, and it’s summer, but the fireplace is lit._

_It’s lit because Rose is always too cold. It was one of the first things she did when she came into the room. She stands by it, in her favourite purple dress, the one Scorpius gave her for Christmas two years ago. She fidgets with her hands. She’s said she has something to say, but she hasn’t quite gotten to it yet._

_Scorpius sits on the sofa. He hasn’t changed out of his work clothes. It was a choice—he doesn’t intend for this meeting to last too long. This is not a social call he wants. Rose has asked several times now to speak with him, and every time he’s offered some excuse. He said yes this time just so it would hopefully stop. She can say what she needs to and it can finally be done._

_He lied to Albus about it. He doesn’t feel good about it, but Albus can be paranoid. Scorpius will tell him tomorrow. Albus deserves to know, but Scorpius has to do this by himself. This was a part of his life that Albus was not a part of. It’s Scorpius’ responsibility._

_Rose turns, squaring her shoulders. “Here’s the thing,” she says. She looks beautiful. Hair slick about her scalp, but let loose in a scatter of curls at the back. She’s clearly dressed up for the occasion. “When I broke up with you, you told me—you said things to me that I wasn’t ready to listen to. I thought I knew what I wanted, how I wanted things to be. But it’s been four months and all I can think about is what you said and how I didn’t listen. And I want to tell you the things you told me.” Rose twists her hands together, inhaling. “You are the love of my life. Things don’t work without you. We had plans, and those plans need to happen. We need to be married, and have brilliant children, and grow old together. My life is not my life unless it’s with you. If I’m not with you—it’s as if a part of me has gone. I’m happiest with you, and deep down you know you’re happiest with me. Please reconsider—because without you, I’m lost.”_

_While she speaks, Scorpius keeps his eyes on the floor. Once Rose has finished, he nods slightly. “My response—is the same one you gave me.” Scorpius lifts his eyes, and anyone who knew him would barely recognize his face. There’s a coldness there that seems foreign, but it’s pure Malfoy. He looks like his father. “That’s sounds like a you problem. Not a me problem.”_

_Rose takes a short breath. “Ouch,” she says quietly._

_“Hurt then, too.”_

_Rose glances down, frowning. “I know—I was wretched to you. I was a terrible partner for a long time. Self absorbed and mean spirited and focused on all the wrong things. I don’t know what happened to me. I’m not—I am not the person I thought I would be when we first got together. When I was younger, I wanted to change the world. I wanted to make it a better place. And I haven’t. I’ve—made it worse. Someone said that to me, and it’s stuck in my head like a curse. This isn’t who I wanted to be.”_

_“Rose, I appreciate what you’re saying, but that’s something you need to work through yourself. It has nothing to do with me—”_

_“But it_ does _.” Rose drops her hands. “I pictured myself as someone who went out into the world and did good things. I pictured myself hand in hand with a good man, who cared about the things I did, who could support me, who’d love me no matter what, who’d lift me up. And that’s you. It’s always been you. Through all my low points, you had my back. You supported me, no matter what I did. I didn’t appreciate that, and I am so sorry for not recognizing all that you did sooner. The last few months—they have been the absolute worst of my life, and for the first time I didn’t have you with me. I realized then all that you’d done, that I’d taken for granted. It’s been unbearable without you.”_

_“I don’t want it to seem like I’m unfeeling when it comes to your difficulties. I’m sorry it’s been hard. There are those who would have some questions, however, when past evidence suggests you didn’t think I deserved you at your best, but assume I should be there to pick up the pieces at your worst.”_

_Rose squeezes her eyes closed. “Please don’t tell me I’ve damaged this irreparably.”_

_Incredulous, Scorpius says, “Rose, I wanted to marry you and you broke up with me for it.”_

_“I_ know _, but it was a mistake. It was a horrible mistake, and I would give anything to take it back.”_

_“There’s no changing it.”_

_She shakes her head, with a touch of confusion. “You weren’t like this the last few times I saw you.”_

_“How so?”_

_“You were…warmer.”_

_“We were around other people. I suppose it’s habit. I’ve always tried so hard to make people see in you the things I see in you. Only we’re alone now, and I’ve never lied to you before. You broke my heart, Rose. There’s no agreement here that I have to be pleased about it.”_

_Rose straightens her stance. “Let me make it up to you. Give me another chance.”_

_Scorpius shakes his head. “Please stop.”_

_“It will be different this time. I’ve grown up, I’ve learned from my mistakes—”_

_Scorpius puts both hands up in front of himself. “_ Stop _,” he breathes._

_Helpless, Rose asks, “Why?”_

_He looks at her in disbelief, and states the obvious. “Among other things? I’m with someone else.”_

_Rose’s face changes. It’s subtle, but it’s clear she doesn’t accept that as a proper reason. “Albus will never love you the way I do.”_

_“I would prefer he didn’t, actually.”_

_“If you wanted someone self obsessed, rude, and generally unpleasant, there’s always me, and I came first.” Scorpius does not reply, and after a moment, Rose nods. “All right,” she concedes, “that wasn’t funny.”_

_“No. It wasn’t.”_

_“I just don’t understand. He’s not going anywhere. I have known him my whole life, and he’s only gotten worse. You know what he’s like. He’s bitter and hold grudges and he can be so brutally unkind. You know it’s true.”_

_Scorpius thinks about it. “Yes. That is true.” Scorpius brushes at his trouser leg, silent a moment. “You know what he said to me, after that whole dust up with Quarry, after I turned down promotion?”_

_“You what?”_

_Ignoring that, Scorpius says, “He called me selfish. He said that I was wasting my life at the Ministry. That instead of helping people, I was only trying to make people like me. And that I never would.”_

_Horrified, Rose says, “See? I told you—”_

_Scorpius looks at her and says, “He was right.” Scorpius smiles, unbothered by it, even a touch amused. “He was absolutely right. I might not have wanted to admit it to myself, but deep down I knew he was right. I’ll never get any further than I am at the Ministry because I’ve been so dead set on trying to prove to the world that I’m good and pure and that my reputation alone would rehabilitate my family’s name. That’s preposterous, and it will never happen. I stand to inherit the largest personal fortune in England—I could have as much as I wanted right now, my father would just give it to me, and what am I doing? Filing. I’m carrying a boulder up a summit I’ll never reach, when I could be using the resources available to me to actually help people. Put them in homes, send them to school, buy clothes, give them access to clean water. I could do all of that, and I’m not.”_

_“Scorpius—working for the Ministry—it’s important work.”_

_“Not for me. And you know that. You pushed me to stay there, pushed me to advance, not because you thought I’d ever actually achieve that, but because it was respectable. You always considered my last name a personal failing, and at least I struggled away at the Ministry, trying to prove myself, so people could see I was properly sorry for my father and grandfather and all my ancestors. Albus doesn’t give a shit that I’m a Malfoy. I think he even likes it, but that’s besides the point. What matters is that he wants me to be a better person. Not a respectable person, but the very best version of myself, even if that means telling me a hard truth. He and I are opposites in a way. The world sees that hard shell of his and they think that’s all he is, through and through. But I see the parts of him that are soft and loving and I think he is remarkable. People I know, they look at me, and they think because I smile the right way, that I look on the bright side of things, that must mean I’m a good man. But Albus sees the pieces of me that are selfish, and stubborn, and obliviously privileged, and he’s not afraid to tell me, and I’m not afraid to show him. We make one another better. We’re a team, he and I. I don’t worry that he’ll see the dark parts of me and immediately think I’m just another Malfoy. That I’m not worth loving. I know he will love me regardless, which is the way I love the people I love. There is literally nothing you could say that would make me leave him. Not when I know that love can be like this.”_

_Rose puts her hands to her face. After a moment, she reasons, “You and I were together seven years. Seven years, Scorpius. We were broken up only two months, and you’ve only been with him another two. You can’t tell me you’ve simply moved on.”_

_“I think I am.”_

_“You feel this way right now because it’s new. Because—he’s always been obsessed, and after the way I treated you, I’m sure that feels wonderful. But that’s not love. That’s a rebound.”_

_“We were together a long time, yes. And I don’t mean to be harsh, but you are not in a position to tell me what love is or is not.”_

_“That_ is _harsh. You know it is. And I understand I spoke to you that way. I spoke to you like that and worse, but it’s not how you speak to people you love—” Rose pauses. She gazes at Scorpius. “You do…still love me.”_

_Scorpius avoids her eyes. He threads a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead._

_Worry in her voice, Rose says, “You said—you said you would love me forever. That I was the love of your life.” She walks across the room, sitting beside him on the sofa. She stares at Scorpius, hurt. “That doesn’t just change overnight.”_

_Scorpius sits there, self contained. “You don’t really want me to love you, Rose.”_

_“Yes I do—”_

_“We weren’t good together. You know that.”_

_“We were—”_

_“We brought out the worst in one another. I was a doormat. I wasn’t a good boyfriend—”_

_“Yes you were—”_

_“I lied. I didn’t always tell you the truth. I kept my opinion to myself nearly all the time, because I lived in terror of losing you. I said what you wanted to hear, made excuses for you, convinced myself that I was doing the right thing—but I wasn’t. And you hated me for how weak I was. I don’t know why you didn’t let me loose sooner. I can sit here and give you any number of reasons for why we are not getting back together. What it comes down to in the end is that it was never going to work. Even if I wasn’t with someone else, if we gave this another go, it would end the exact same way. It was the living, breathing definition of a toxic relationship, and for both our sakes, I’m saying no. We are better off not together.”_

_“I don’t accept that.”_

_“It doesn’t matter. It takes two, and I am not doing this.” Scorpius can see that Rose still isn’t quite there. This doesn’t feel good. He’s being as calm as he’s able, but he wants this to be over. So he says, “What else can I say to convince you?”_

_“I can’t…I can’t believe it’s just over. After so long—” Rose inches closer, and puts her hands over Scorpius’. He flinches, and Rose starts to pull them away. It’s not in Scorpius’ nature to hurt another person intentionally. So he relaxes, and Rose hesitantly takes his hands. “You can’t honestly look in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me.”_

_“Will you leave if I do?”_

_After a pause, Rose says, “Yes.”_

_Scorpius looks her in the eyes and tells the truth. “I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore.”_

_He sees the realization on her face. The moment when it sinks in that yes, it is absolutely over. They’re not going to hurt one another anymore._

_Rose looks up at the ceiling resolutely, blinking furiously. Scorpius wishes he could comfort her, but it’s not a situation where anyone can be. He keeps his hands still under hers, unmoving._

_It takes a little bit, but Rose whispers, “Okay.” She nods, and Scorpius exhales. Pushing down tears, Rose looks at him, and gives him a small smile. She’s brave. She’s always been brave. “Goodbye, Scorpius.”_

_Before he can reply, she leans forward and kisses him. He keeps his eyes open at first, but then he closes them. It’s not a kiss with any kind of pleasure in it. It’s sad, and she’s trembling, and he thinks that it’s fitting it ends this way. It’s how it started._

_The door is thrown open, and the memory vanishes_.

 

I turn my eyes away.

            My heart is pounding. At first, I don’t know what to do with my hands. All the confidence I had walking into this building has evaporated, and I’m on unfamiliar ground.

            All right.

            The memory in my mind replays. How he never varied. He held his ground for me, but more importantly for himself. And yes, I admit, my own memory shows how tense he was in that moment. How passively he was letting her hold his hands, how she was the one leaned forwards. He was saying goodbye, and I willfully misread it.

            Scorpius is not going to leave me for Rose. He may never leave me.

            I swallow, overwhelmed by the enormity of the knowledge. I told myself I was loving him unreservedly, just in case it ended at any moment, but there’s no way to do that if you think it’s going to disappear without warning. I held back because I didn’t trust him. What do I do, knowing that he might be the only person I can trust with my whole heart?

            Being loved by someone, being truly loved, is terrifying. It makes me vulnerable. If I’m going to love him properly, I need to do it without limits and caveats. I’ve never loved anyone like that before. Am I even capable?

            I don’t deserve someone like him. All my faults—

            Stop.

            I have to stop. He sees me. As I am. As I can be. And if someone like Scorpius loves me, maybe I’m all right.

            I glance towards him, just in time to see Scorpius rising from his seat. I quickly put my eyes back down.

            I fidget with my fingers, head lowered. I feel this tightness in my shoulders, and my adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The closer he presumably gets, the more tense I am.

            When Scorpius gets here, I know it from my family’s reaction. I see them all looking behind me from my peripheral vision. I keep my head bowed.

            Scorpius speaks to me, but doesn’t bother keeping his voice quiet for my family’s benefit. “You haven’t wanted to tell anyone because you think I can’t be held accountable. But I can, and I will.” His hand enters the side of my vision. “So come dance with me.”

            I balk. All these people. But more importantly—my family—

            I start to glance towards my father, but Scorpius says, “Don’t worry about him. You’ve already proven it’s your night, not his. Come on, sweetheart.”

            Feeling the tectonic plates of my life moving, I reach up and put my hand in his. I get to my feet, and let Scorpius lead me to the dance floor.

            Saturnia has disappeared, replaced by some young witch I’ve never seen before. She’s singing Mazzy Star as Scorpius turns me around, taking me into his arms. Without hesitating, I wrap my arms around his back, and rest my head on his shoulder.

            In the distance, I hear the crack of flashbulbs, and the raising of murmurs, but it’s so far away and so unimportant. I feel Scorpius in my arms, here and now, my eyes closed. He gently squeezes the back of my neck, rubbing his other hand up and down my spine.

            He is everything I have ever wanted. For him, I let down all my guards.

 

And later, when it’s he and I in my bed, me in his lap and him inside me, and I feel as though I am about to raise a tidal wave, Scorpius promises that he will never, ever let me go. He holds me tight as I lift and lower on him, saying my name like a prayer.

            And I know I will never let him go, that I will hold on, that faith can be rewarded, that love is magic, and that this, here, with him, is the happiest I will ever be.


	21. Chapter 21

I don’t want to wake up. Only I suspect that I am. My bed is warm, and I’m sure that if I opened my eyes I would find the sunlight pouring in on my face. I hunch my shoulders, pulling the blankets closer, before cracking open my eyelids.

            Startling back, I say, “What on earth are you doing?”

            Scorpius snorts. “Looking at you.”

            “Spare me.” I pull the blankets over my head.

            Tugging them back down, Scorpius scoots closer to me. His whole face is smiling. He has no business looking this gorgeous this early in the morning. Or at least, I assume it’s early. He settles in front of me, stroking his fingers over my side.

            A bit shy, I gaze back. I touch his lower lip, and he nibbles my fingertips. I shake my head, then I just spend a while touching his perfect face. Scorpius closes his eyes. I touch the lids, feeling how delicate the skin is there.

            “I have to tell you something,” he murmurs.

            “Okay.”          

            “I’m not saying you need to keep it that way or anything, but I love your eyes when they’re green.” Scorpius takes my hand, kissing it. “Makes you stand out, makes people look at you. People should be looking at you.”

            “I don’t particularly like being looked at.”

            “I’m sorry, but did you see yourself last night?”

            I let out a laugh. “That was more a ‘fuck you’ to my father.”

            Scorpius pulls my hand close to his chest. “Do you want to tell me what happened with him?” he asks quietly.

            I think about it a moment. “No. Not right now. Later. I just want to…be with you.”

            “I’d like that. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention—” I groan, and Scorpius hooks a leg over mine, as if I had plans to run away. “The park dedication happens in about an hour. If you don’t want to go, we won’t. Staying here with you, whiling away the day, I’d like nothing more. If you did want to go, however, we should probably get up.”

            Frowning, I look at my hand in his. It’s still a shock to see my hands moisturized.

            “There’s no right or wrong answer. Those aren’t even the only options. We can do whatever you like.”

            “What do you think I should do?”

            “I don’t want to tell you what—”

            “No,” I say, silencing him. “I want you to tell me, honestly, what you think the best decision is, for me and you. I want to know what you think.”

            Scorpius studies me, then smiles wistfully. “I think…we should go.” I sigh, and Scorpius laughs a bit. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. And…I think that you have every right to be angry at your father right now. No one’s going to dispute that. But—everyone who is anyone will be there, and I want to show you off. I want to have you on my arm in front of the whole magical world and show them how lucky I am.”

            “You probably just have a new outfit you want to wear.”

            “Yeah, and the outfit is you.”

            “Fuck off,” I laugh. “Ugh. You really want to sit through hours of speeches just so we can see another statue of my father?”

            “We have a right to be there. You have the right to be there. Besides, I told Tim I’d sit with him and Hugo. They’re expecting me, and I’m not going to just leave you here while I have to sit through middle aged people pontificating about the meaning of war.”

            “I’ll only go if I can sit beside you.”

            “That can be arranged.”

            “I’ll only go if you swear to me you’ll finish _Beowulf_ this weekend.”

            “I swear it. I have my own conditions.”

            “I thought you were the one trying to convince me—”

            “We fuck off before anyone tries dragging us off for drinks or anything, and come back here, and…” Bashfully, Scorpius proposes, “You return the favour for last night.”

            Chewing my lip, I raise a brow. “Why wait?”

            Scorpius flushes, pleased, and agrees, “Why indeed?”

 

We’re able to apparate onto the park grounds. Something like this, they don’t put up a spell, because we’d all just be sitting ducks if something went wrong.

            Which is a cheerful thought, but old habits die hard.

            The speeches have already started. I look at Scorpius, wanting to roll my eyes, but he has such an expression on his face that I have to smile. It’s a mixture of embarrassment and contentment. He catches me looking, and I tilt my head. Scorpius bites into his lip, then leans forward.

            I meet him halfway, tenderly kissing his mouth. I’m still drinking in the afterglow of what just happened. Half of me is still in our bed, holding him as he pants in my arms.

            The crack of flashbulbs makes me flinch. I turn, ready to give the photographer more than just a piece of my mind, when Scorpius tugs my hand. “I did say I wanted to show you off. Come along, love.”

            We almost immediately run into a veritable wall of aurors. One of them looks at me suspiciously over his clipboard.

            “Hannah Longbottom,” I say. “I’m sure I’m on the list somewhere.”

            “You’re late.” Auror O’Twyer walks up, scowling at me.

            Before I can say anything, Scorpius says, “We had a big night.” And gives her the _cheesiest_ wink.

            I look away, muttering, “Oh my God.”

            “You see, we’re young and in love—” I put a hand to my face and moan. Scorpius says, “Something wrong, my darling?”

            “I—would not even know where to start.”         

            O’Twyer looks at Scorpius a long moment before saying, “You amuse me.” She steps aside. “Wait until the applause starts before taking a seat. Try to be inconspicuous.”

            Scorpius gestures for me to walk ahead of him. I give him a glare, then slink through the smirking aurors. Once he’s at my side, I say darkly, “You’re a fucking _Malfoy_.”

            “I thought you liked that about me.”

            Pausing at the back of the crowd, I mutter, “I hope you liked what we did this morning, because it’s the last time you’ll be getting it for a _long_ time—” A middle aged woman in front of us glances back with a dirty look. “Yes, I’m talking about anal sex.” There’s a squeak and some ruffled feathers. Scorpius is staring at me with an open mouth, and I shrug unapologetically. “Two can play that game, _darling_.” People begin politely clapping for some talking point, and I mockingly clap along.

            There are two relatively stout aisles of people seated before a stage. No more than two hundred people, and at least twenty aurors that I can spot. I can see my closest family and the old war guard up at the front. There’s a sea of red hair with how many Weasleys are in attendance. Up on the stage are the people giving speeches—Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, some politicians, the Minister. James sits at the side of the stage, piece of paper gripped tightly in hand.

            Good lord, I wonder how that speech will go.

            “No sign of your father,” I murmur.

            “Dad would never sit through this. Hey, there’s Hugo and Tim.”

            I follow his gaze. They’re two rows from the front. Tim looks relaxed, arm slung around his date. I see Hugo take in a deep breath, then sigh, and I smile. He’s never been good at sitting through speeches. “They saved us seats.”

            Dad sits to the side and left of the podium. He’s mostly gazing at the ground, mouth twisted. Occasionally he’ll smile weakly, clapping along when everyone else does.

            I should have gone to Hogwarts and taken the wand out of the tomb. Just to have it here with me so I could scare the shit out of him. Maybe for his sixtieth.

            The head of the War Fund stops rambling, and everyone applauds with relief. I lean towards Scorpius and say, “We could still leave.”

            Snorting, he pushes me down the aisle. “Stop being so dramatic.”

            Glowering, I quickly make my way towards the front of the audience. Hugo is clapping as we approach, and doesn’t notice us until I say, “Move over.”

            He jerks, blinking up at me. “You’re here.”

            “Yeah, we’re here. So—” I nod to the two empty seats between him and Tim, where they’ve lain their coats.

            “I didn’t think you’d—”

            “Come close, Hugo,” Tim teases, picking up Hugo’s jacket and tossing it at him. “I don’t bite.” He gestures to his date—the blond girl—with a grin. “She does.”

            Hugo rolls his eyes and scoots over so we can have the aisle. “Not that I’m not thrilled you’re here,” Hugo says, “but I hoped you’d save yourselves the pain of being around Tim right now.”

            Scorpius sits first, and the girl leans across Tim and Hugo with her hand out. “I’m Kelly. Nice to finally meet you.”

            As the Minister for International Relations starts speaking, Scorpius replies, “Nice to meet you as well—”

            Someone behind us goes, “ _Shh_ ,” so I turn around and tell him, “It’s _my_ father they’re nattering about, so fuck off.”

            “Albus.” I turn around. Mum’s looking at me over her shoulder. “Behave yourself.”

            “Yeah, Albus,” Tim whispers, “behave yourself.”

            Mum gives him an exasperated look. “You as well, Tim.” Tim gives her a thumb’s up. Dubious, Mum turns around.

            It’s as bad as I anticipated. People who don’t really know my father get up and tell the same stories I’ve heard since I was a child, about a brave boy who killed a very bad man. I’m just over it. I don’t care who my father was then, I care who he is now. I hear the same old names and phrases. Remus Lupin, Godric’s Hollow, Dumbledore’s Army, on and on. People who died years before I was born, a world remade because my father was a courageous child.

            I’m really regretting the decision to be here. Looking at James, it seems he does as well. We catch one another’s eyes. I slowly put a finger gun under my chin and pull the trigger. James quickly looks away, but I swear he nearly smiles.

            Scorpius reaches over, pulling my hand down. I frown, but instead of drifting off on a sea of boredom, I look at his fingers. I add my other hand, running my fingertips over his thumb. I stroke the short hairs on the back, dig my thumbnail gently into the cuticles, trace the lines on his palm.

            This morning was—something. I had him on his side, our bodies curved together. My arm hooked under his neck, my other hand squeezing his thigh, as I rolled my hips. He was so tight that if it had been anyone else I might have felt trapped, but because it was him it was…a gift. I had to keep closing my eyes because it all threatened to be overwhelming. The way Scorpius moaned was unlike anything I’d ever heard before. A piece of himself I don’t think he’d ever shown anyone.

            This is the man I will spend the rest of my life with, and this is the first day we’ve made love to one another, and that is a precious thing.

            Scorpius lets me play with his hand, even though we are two grown men in public. Eventually, when I decide I’m being silly, I wrap both my hands around his and force myself to pay attention.

            They finally begin getting to the people who actually know Dad. Granddad gives a lovely speech about how Nan swooped in and made Dad a part of this family. He also tells the Ford Anglia story, which gets a little more fantastical each time. I can believe in a lot of things, but I doubt a feral car once saved my father and uncle from giant spiders.

            After Dad, the master of ceremonies brings his wand to his throat and says, “Harry Potter’s eldest son, James Sirius Potter.”

            Everyone claps as James reluctantly gets to his feet. He walks across the stage, head down, holding onto his speech for dear life. Dad is staring at him, as tense as I’ve ever seen him.

            James sets the sheet down on the podium, smoothing his hand over it. He’s swallowing repeatedly, unable to look up. He coughs, and the sound reverberates across the crowd. A silence falls, and we all sit here, waiting.

            We wait long enough that it becomes uncomfortable.

            James takes a short breath, looking down at the sheet. It takes him a few more seconds, and then he flips the sheet over. He sighs, then looks up. “I’d like to thank everyone for coming today. For many of you, it’s a national holiday. For me, it’s my father’s birthday, and a momentous one. My father, who was supposed to die at one year of age, is now fifty years old. It’s only one of dozens of miracles my father has achieved.”

            He gives the speech everyone who doesn’t know us expects of him. He hits the high points, the triumphs, the tragedies. But it’s more than clear to me there was another version of this speech on the other side of the paper, and he’s made the choice not to air our dirty laundry in front of a crowd.

            I don’t begrudge James that. The public has always felt like they deserve every inch of Dad. They don’t get to have all our secrets.

            When he finishes, James gives everyone the same little twisted smile Dad has had through most of the speeches. As everyone claps, Dad gets up, reaching out his hand. James gives it a perfunctory shake, then walks back to his seat.

            I clap for James, really clap for him. He looks at me, not very pleased with himself, and I give him a wistful smile.

 

Uncle Ron gives the funny speech, because someone has to. He gets unexpectedly choked up talking about his brother Fred, though, which makes me squirm a bit. Seeing Uncle Ron trying not to cry in front of a crowd is not an experience I’d recommend to anyone.

            Aunt Hermione obviously gets up to talk about big ideas. What Harry Potter meant to the world, what he still means. I want to go a bit cross eyed, so I go back to playing with Scorpius’ hand.

            The crowd is definitely starting to flag. It’s been at least an hour. Lily looks back at me and mouths, ‘ _Fuck_.’ I could echo the sentiment.         

            The master of ceremonies returns to the front of the stage after my aunt is finished, and I lean over to Scorpius. “Want to go out to eat tonight?”

            “Anything in mind?”

            “I want Thai.”

            “I don’t want Thai.”

            “Well, I do, and you talked me into this, so—”

            The master of ceremonies looks directly at me as he says, “The Minister for Magic, Francis Thompson.”

            I obligingly put up my hands and clap.

            Tim’s father walks to the podium, giving the MC a polite nod. He’s a trim man of regular height, with shortly cropped, greying blond hair. He wears a tan coloured suit, and as per usual, looks absolutely ordinary.

            Taking his place behind the podium, Minister Thompson says, “Good afternoon.” He folds his hands, looking over the audience. “Twenty five years ago, a motion was put forward to make July 31stth a national holiday in the magical world. The story has always been that the motion was passed unanimously. This is not the case. Three people were opposed. They were, however, encouraged—encouraged quite vigorously—to abstain. It was made clear to them that were they to go on the record opposing the holiday, they would never work in the Ministry again. As you might guess by my bringing up this story, I was one of those three.”

            Finally, something fucking interesting.

            Thompson is unfazed by the murmurs, or the change in the crowd’s mood. “I am the same age as Harry Potter. We were in the same year. But my name is in no history books when it regards the war, nor the names of my brother and sister, who died in it. I was in Ravenclaw House, kept to myself, and during the Battle of Hogwarts, I simply picked up my youngest sister, looked for the nearest exit, and started walking. I had no illusions when it came to notions of glory. My older brother and sister were also uninterested in dying young, but had made what was considered an unforgivable error, at least in the eyes of Death Eaters, by hiring a Muggle born employee in their new shop. One day, they simply disappeared. It was clear to our family what had happened, but we could hardly report their vanishing to the people who had vanished them. And after the war, those people making tallies of the dead told my mother and father that their eldest children—Lambert and Miranda Thompson, born twelve minutes apart on August 17, 1976—might have simply run off. They had no known affiliation with the Order, had never made any effort to fight. So their names went on no rolls. Simply vanished people, vanished from the history books, vanished from everywhere that might matter save the memories of those who loved them.”

            The crowd does _not_ care for this. Thompson doesn’t seem to mind, and my respect for him has just increased ten fold.

            “I will admit that my history influenced my opinion of Harry Potter Day. The further we were from the war, the number of names we chose to remember became fewer and fewer. That is a pattern of history, of course. We reduce the complexity of an event to its most memorable points, and what we choose to remember says a great deal about what we value as a society. We remember heroes, though there will always be far more who simply survived. And victims. Human beings don’t like to think that we would be victims. Heroes make for better stories, and better speeches. A young boy, chosen by fate, who after a series of incredulous adventures kills a madman, thereby bringing peace to a nation.” Thompson raises his shoulders. “Two young people, quiet, cerebral, running a shop on esoterica, vanish off the face of the earth, because they decided to hire someone based on their merits instead of blood status. One of those stories lives on, inspires, unites. The other? The mere mention causes people to squirm in their seats.”

            Out of curiosity, I lean forward to surreptitiously glance at Tim. He’s watching his father with a furrowed brow.

            “And so, twenty five years ago, when I was asked to vote yea or nay on Harry Potter Day, voting no seemed the moral option. It seemed a way to honour those names that would never be spoken outside their own families. I was, however, swayed by the advice of a good friend and mentor, who advised me that in politics, if one wished to survive, to read the room. I imagine those of you assembled would wish me the same in this moment. And so I made myself scarce the day of the vote, held my tongue, and despised myself for cowardice.

            “It became clear to me over the years that I had, in fact, made the right decision that day. Not only because it allowed me to keep my job, to the point that I am now fortunate enough to be your Minister, but because Harry Potter Day is a necessity for this community. What I didn’t realize then, but do now, is that Harry Potter Day was never about the man himself. When we say ‘Harry Potter’ what we really mean is hope.

            “Harry Potter has become short hand for the idea that the magical world, if it tries hard enough, if it bands together, can get the job done through a combination of determination, luck, and magic. For a long time, I didn’t understand that the two things—the idea and the man—were separate entities. And I know, I’m certainly not the first to say that Harry Potter is a symbol. What has largely been left unsaid, however, is what that means for the rest of us. History will remember that Harry Potter battled Voldemort and won. What history may forget is that there were countless people who helped Harry along the way. And what we as a society might choose to forget is that countless helped Voldemort as well. Heroes and villains may be remembered, but they do not become that way without the people around them. Very few of us will ever be a hero, or a villain. We will be the unremembered masses.

            “And instead of fighting that, we choose to forget. We forget the little things, here and there, that led to victory. We elevate a small number of individuals, and we choose to forget our own accomplishments. In some way it is a tragedy, but it may be the only way to heal. To be faced constantly with the horrors of our past, even if they led to triumph, seems like a dark and terrible thing to contemplate.

            “So instead of celebrating ourselves, we celebrate single individuals that we have chosen together to share. They have become our memory. And so we separate them from us, and even after all they’ve given, we ask them this one more thing: be the place where our memories reside. Be the face of hope, of perseverance, of carrying on. Be the person that unifies us in our grief, our remembrance, our belief in a better future. Be our symbol. Be the story instead of a person. That’s what Harry Potter Day has become, and that’s what it will be, long after we’ve gone. This is what we’ve chosen to be remembered for—the possibility of hope in the darkest of times.

            “Which is all to say, Harry’s name shall be going on another park.”

            I see Dad smile a little at that. He looks less pained than before.

            “I’d ask you now to join me in welcoming the man for whom this day is named. For nearly forty nine years, he has been the symbol for hope against all odds. The symbol which we have chosen to be remembered by. I would like to introduce Harry Potter.”

            The applause is more robust this time. Dad gets to his feet and goes to shake the Minister’s hand. The crowd is certainly happier. Dad has a history of unpredictable speeches. Sometimes he gets it in his head to speak truth to power. No one has the heart to tell him he has more power than anyone.

            It was good of Thompson to bring up the forgotten. Not many do. In the end, it’s all a matter of who remembers your name. Very few of our names will be remembered.

            I find that I’m clapping out of habit. I put my hands down as Dad takes hold of the podium. He looks down at Mum, gaze softening. She looking back at him, head held high.

            Then his eyes slip past her to me.

            Dad clears his throat, then reaches into his inner pocket. I cross my arms. At least we can go home after this.

            Scorpius sniffs.

            I turn my head to look at him, and as I do, I see that he’s tilting his head to look up, face going slack.

            He moves so quickly that I can’t quite process it, shooting to his feet. Past him, there’s another blur of movement. I see Tim’s date swinging her wand around to point at the stage.

            Only Scorpius has his wand pointed at the sky, roaring, “ _DISPARITUS ARMUM!”_

A ray of blue light slams into—oh God, there was an apparition spell overhead, and not a one of us noticed. From the corner of my eye, I see people leaping towards my father.

            Kelly howls with rage and starts to flick her wand.

            Jabbing his wand towards her, Scorpius yelps, “ _Petrificus totalis_!”

            She goes flat as a board, falling face forward.

            Scorpius looks shocked, still holding out his wand, and only now are other people starting to move. From my peripheral vision, I see aurors grabbing onto Dad. I’m yanking out my wand as Dad tries to lunge off the stage. “No!” he yells at the aurors. “Don’t, my children—”

            I hear the crack of disapparition as Tim screams, “ _No_!”

            Then he’s on his feet and swinging his wand towards Scorpius, who just—isn’t—fast enough.

            Tim points his wand at Scorpius’ chest and snarls, “ _Occisus jacere_.”

            I’m trying to shove Scorpius out of the way, but I’m too late, and orange light strikes his chest, billowing outward like flame. He falls backwards, limp. When he hits the ground, his wand bounces out of his hand.

            No—no no no—

            I scramble over to him as everyone runs away or apparates. “Scorpius!” I start shaking him. “Scorpius!”

            He’s not waking up.

            From behind me, I hear Hugo scream, “What the _fuck_ are you doing? What the—”

            “Come here!”

            “Get away from him!” James yells.

            I look up just in time to see a hex hit James full on, sending him flying.

            I don’t think, I just shove myself upwards and whip my wand through the air. “ _Clupeus_!”

            A dome comes down around us, tight and unbreakable. Tim, Hugo and I are the only ones standing in it, and before I can stop him, Tim grabs Hugo and puts him in front of himself as a shield. He throws an arm around Hugo’s neck and squeezes, shoving the tip of his wand to Hugo’s face.

            I point my wand at Tim, struggling to breathe.

            Eyes wild, Tim says nothing as aurors surround the shell. Nearly everyone else has fled. Distantly, I hear our mothers yelling.

            Without wavering from my eyes, Tim points his wand down at Kelly’s prone figure. “ _Avada kedavra_ ,” he hisses, and there’s a short, sharp pulse of green light. I gasp, tightening my hold on my wand. He puts his wand back to Hugo’s cheek, and gives me a terrifying smile. “To prove I’m not fucking around here, Albus. And I don’t particularly care for loose ends.”

            “Let him go,” I say, but my voice is small.

            “I tell you what you’re going to do. You’re all going to put down your wands, and _you_ are going to take down this spell. Anyone tries to follow me out of here, it’s going to get messy.”

            Hugo’s wheezing, clawing at Tim’s arm.

            “What the fuck have you done?” I whisper.

            “What I had to.”

            “How could you do this? How could you do this to _him_? He’s your friend!”

            “He’s a means to an end,” Tim says flatly. “And right now, all he is to me is leverage. Put your weapons down!”

            I hear an auror hiss, “We can’t do this, he’s the Minister’s son—”

            “They both are!” someone replies.

            Tim smiles even wider. “Being the son of someone famous has its perks, doesn’t it, Albus?”

            “Let him go, Tim—Tim, he can’t breathe, please—” Frantic, I yell, “Why are you doing this?”

            Shaking his head, Tim says, “Do you know, when the old man was blathering on up there, I thought he might actually make a point. He came close, didn’t he. We put people on pedestals. We invest all our hopes and dreams in them. But Dad didn’t have the sack to say what happens when icons are shattered.”

            Flabbergasted, I say, “All this time—you were just trying to get here to turn my father into a Squib? What the fuck is even happening, you’ve never cared about anyone but yourself—”

            Tim hisses in disgust. “I’ve seen things you could never imagine. I’ve seen what witches and wizards do to people without magic. And you all know it. You know, and you do nothing. All too busy making heroes instead of dealing with the shit at your front door. The only way you’d ever pay attention is if I made everyone’s hero something they hate. Then they would see. Then they would get it—”

            Hugo’s eyes are bugging out. I put out my free hand, pleading, “Tim, you’re going to kill him, please—”

            “Put—your wands—down!” Tim demands.

            Over his shoulder, I see the others looking to O’Twyer. She’s staring hard at Tim. Then she nods, and slowly sets her wand on the ground. The other aurors follow suit.

            Tim glances around, then says to me, “Let me out of here, Albus.”

            “Let him go, and—”

            “No! I’m telling _you_ what to do, not the other way around! You have been a serious pain in my ass for months, and you do not want to test me! Let me out. I take Hugo with me, and I will let him go once I have enough distance. Do that, and I won’t do to him what I did to your boyfriend.”

            My breath catches in my throat. “What are you talking about?”

            “He doesn’t seem to be waking up, Albus.”

            “Tim,” Hugo gasps.

            “What did you do to him?” I demand.

            Tim smiles at me viciously. “You _know_ what I did.”

            I stare at him, trembling.

            Anger begins to overtake panic. He lied to all of us. He tricked us. He was going to hurt my dad, he killed those people. And Scorpius—he can’t have done to him what he did to Richie. Richie’s not going to wake up. Scorpius has to wake up. He has to.

            I’m going to kill him.

            Tim scoffs, “Get that look off your face, Albus. You’ve never won a fight in your life. Do you really want to bet your cousin’s life on it?”

            Hugo looks at me and begs, “Albus, please—please don’t let him hurt me.”

            I go very still.

            It’s strange, but I’m suddenly very calm. And I’m thinking. I’m thinking so quickly that I nearly forget everything around me.

            I’ve always been good with facts and figures. I can take in stacks of information in a moment and discern where it should go and why. I make connections, come to conclusions, and stick by them. I’m the one who knows what hurts the most. I assume the worst. So when I realize what the worst possible thing is, and that it’s happening, I know I’m right.

            Rage does not begin to describe it.

            For the first time, my anger doesn’t make me feel out of control. It is so vast that it’s tranquil. I realize that there isn’t anything wrong with me. I’m powerful, and power can be frightening in the wrong hands. I know this. I know this better than anyone.

            But I know I’m right, and I know that the worst case scenario is true. I am certain of it. I think very quickly about what that means for the future, and what it is I have to do.

            I’m not weak. I’m angry. I’m not alone. I love.

            It doesn’t matter if I have the Elder Wand or not. I know what I’m capable of.

            My arm was starting to lower. Instead, I raise it.

            Tim clamps his arm tighter around Hugo’s throat. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Albus. You don’t have the courage.”

            I look at Tim, choking my cousin, and my fury is that of a man not meant to be remembered by history.

            Without having to even raise my voice, I point my wand at Tim’s face and say calmly, “ _Avada Kedavra_.”

            The spell that hits him is so fierce I see a divot form in his forehead. I kill Tim so neatly that the certain, arrogant look on his face remains there. The first things to drop are his arms. Hugo sucks in a ragged breath, and lurches away. At that, Tim’s body falls forward, dead as stone.

            Holding his throat, Hugo stares at me with huge eyes.

            I turn my back, slashing my wand through the air as I dive for Scorpius. I hear the aurors running towards us as I take Scorpius by the face.

            “Scorpius? Scorpius, wake up.”

            He looks fine. He looks like he’s sleeping. Colour good, hair a little mussed, nothing out of the ordinary. Except he doesn’t so much as flinch when I start screaming his name.

 

Arm wrapped around myself, I chew on the nails of my other hand. I’m up against a wall, tapping my foot.

            I have to get back to him.

            “Mr. Potter—Albus, are you listening?”

            I look up from under my brows. “No.”

            The two aurors glance at one another, displeased.

            We’re at St. Mungo’s. I’m just down the hall from Scorpius’ room. I need to be in there with him. His father is there, but I should be too. I want to hear everything that’s being said. I need to be a part of this.

            I killed someone. Tim. I killed Tim. I killed him.

            “Albus—”

            “Are you charging me with anything?” I say abruptly. “Am I being arrested? Is that what’s happening?”

            “We just need to get your statement—”

            “My statement—you were both there. You want my statement? A man and his insane girlfriend tried to attack my father, put my boyfriend in a coma, then tried to kill my cousin as well, so I killed him before he had the chance. What part of that is unclear?”

            The calm I felt in the moment has given way to something else. I feel like a string pulled too taut, with threads starting to fray. I’m not letting myself think too hard about what comes next, because the only thing that could possibly happen next is Scorpius waking up. That’s the only available option.

            The one auror starts to speak, but I say, “Am I being arrested if I walk away? Are you going to do that?”

            They look at one another again. “No, but—”

            I push off the wall, opening the door.

            They’ll figure out a way to wake him. They have to. He was the one who sussed it out. If it wasn’t for Scorpius, God only knows what would have happened. How many people would have been hurt. It’s impossible that he’d just be left to wither like Rebecca’s brother.

            I come up short.

            Dad is standing in the hallway, between me and the door to Scorpius’ room. He stands in front of me, fidgeting with his hands. Looking at me like he wants to say something, Dad opens his mouth, but can’t get out the words.

            Staring at him, I say hoarsely, “Is he brave enough yet?”

            Dad closes his eyes. I walk past him, and when he tries reaching for me, I throw off his hand. I head straight into Scorpius’ room, shutting the door behind myself.

            Mr. Malfoy is standing over the bed, a fist to his mouth. Scorpius lies on the bed, flat on his back, in hospital pajamas. He doesn’t respond to anything. Just breathes in and out.

            “Have they come back yet?” I ask.

            “No. Conferring down the hall.” Mr. Malfoy stares at Scorpius, as if willing him to wake. He reaches up, running a hand over his face. It’s trembling. “Why did you have to kill him?” he breathes.

            “I had to.”

            “He could have told us how to reverse this.”

            “I don’t know that he would have.”

            “It wasn’t kindness that made me a Death Eater,” Mr. Malfoy snaps. “He would have told me.”

            “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But in the moment—after what he said he’d done—I don’t know that you would have done any differently.”

            Tilting his head back, Mr. Malfoy gazes at the ceiling. There’s a tic fluttering along his jaw.

            I study Scorpius, searching for any sign. I can see just a sliver of foot at the bottom of the sheets. Stepping forward, I carefully cover his feet, tucking the sheets under. Just twitch a little. Just the tiniest bit, so I know you’re in there.

            Scorpius breathes in, and out.

            There’s a knock at the door. I squeeze Scorpius’ toes, then look up as a healer steps inside the room.

            “Oh no,” I say.

            “What?” says Mr. Malfoy.

            I start shaking my head, staring at Healer Morrow. “Not him. No. The other one Tim did this too—this man wiped his hands of the whole thing, tossed the boy in the Janus Thickey.”

            Face hardening, Mr. Malfoy says, “That won’t be happening.”

            Healer Morrow says, “Mr. Malfoy—”

            “See, Albus, it would be preposterous to say that a healer would give up on finding a cure for whatever is ailing my son, because if a man did such a thing, I would buy the land out from under him. I would find where all the people he loved resided, and I would buy that land as well, and I would follow the lot of them like a plague across this earth so that they would never know rest. That’s how I know Scorpius will wake up. Because the alternative is me, on my own, with a great deal of time on my hands, and a _staggering_ amount of money.”

            Healer Morrow speaks again. To his credit, he keeps his voice steady, though his adam’s apple bobs a bit more than usual. “Mr. Malfoy—after speaking with my colleagues—this does seem to be the same curse that was placed on another patient some months ago. We’re still reviewing a number of options—”

            “Albus.” There is something wrong with Mr. Malfoy’s voice. It’s a bit light. Almost dreamy. “Stay here. Don’t let him out of your sight, and don’t let anyone in. Healer Morrow and I need to have a private discussion.”

            “That won’t be necessary—”

            Nodding, Mr. Malfoy begins advancing on Healer Morrow, effectively pushing him out of the room. “Oh, but I think it is. Stay right here, Albus. That’s a good boy.”

            He closes the door.

            I feel alone for the first time in…I don’t know how long.

            Except I’m not alone, I’m with Scorpius. But it feels like I’m alone.

            Stop it, Albus. He’ll be okay. Scorpius is irrepressible as a puppy. He’ll be just fine.

            I pull a chair up to the side of his bed. Slipping my hand over his, I keep searching for any reaction. But his hand is practically boneless.

            “Fish,” I say, and let out a soft little laugh. “Unbelievable. After all these years, your whinging about the bloody fish smell finally pays off.” I rub the back of his hand. “You can’t do this to me, Scorpius. I need you here with me, not having a nap. I suspect I’m going to have all kinds of new trauma to get over. You’ll need to help me with that. So you need to wake up now. I really need you to wake up.”

            His chest rises and falls.

            “All right. All right, you be stubborn. It’s your birthright, and it’s one of the reasons I love you. I know you can hear me, because the alternative is even more depressing than what’s in front of me right now, so I don’t want you to worry, all right? I know you must be scared. And you’re going to be irritated, because for as long as you’re stuck like this you’ll have to listen to my voice. You’ll be sick of it, I promise. But I want to let you know, right from the start, that no one is going to give up. You’re not going to be here long, and you’re not going to be shunted off to the Janus Thickey Ward, and woe betide anyone who says otherwise. Because your dad is a bit terrifying. I suppose I’m terrifying now too. I’ll do anything I can to fix this, anything to keep you safe. Trust me. You’re going to be okay.”

            I bring his hand to my face, brushing it over my lips.

            Swallowing, I kiss his fingers. “No matter what,” I promise, “I’ll never let you go.” I watch Scorpius, the only thing that matters in my entire world. “I will never let you go.”

 

            And then the weeks begin to pass.


	22. Chapter 22

The second week, we start allowing visitors.

            The first week was about keeping people away. I was too paranoid to let anyone near Scorpius, and his father was too angry. The first day, there were aurors all over the place. But Mr. Malfoy lost his temper.

            “There were _dozens_ of you at that park!” he screamed at them. “Dozens of you, and my son was the one to keep that self important bastard with his magic intact, and now you have the audacity to stand there and say you’re here for my boy’s protection?!”

            Within two hours, there was a private security team stationed at the door around the clock. They have a list of who’s allowed in. The list is short. The aurors are not allowed within ten steps of Scorpius’ room, and so they left.

            The first few days were spent looking for any sign that Scorpius was aware of us, that he was improving. We were constantly checking in with the healers, annoying them with our questions, not caring that we were annoying them. Mr. Malfoy and I, without having to speak about it, became an indivisible team with one sole purpose: fix Scorpius.

            Healer’s aides tried to come in at first to take care of Scorpius’ functions. Mr. Malfoy took one look at the woman who came in with her chipped bucket and said coldly, “Get out.” He sent an owl and there was suddenly a cheerful, mute woman who came in every morning and evening to look after things, and a man who takes over on weekends.

            The only time we leave the room is when the healers insist. They do tests that non-cursed people shouldn’t be around for, lest they suffer adverse side effects. Every time, I wait for the second I can return to him, chewing my nails.

            We eat in Scorpius’ room. We live in Scorpius’ room. We sleep in Scorpius’ room. Mr. Malfoy has a bed he unshrinks each night. I simply climbed in with Scorpius the first night. There was no argument about it. I wrap my arm around him so he knows he’s not alone, and I try to find some comfort in his warmth.

            This week, the only thing I’ve been able to think about is making this better. It has to be done. It just has to.

 

The first person we let in is Rose.

            It’s the ninth day. Mr. Malfoy is on his phone, French flowing from his lips so quickly it’s incomprehensible. He paces back and forth, talking to some contact of his in Lourdes. He’s grown impatient with the healers here, and I don’t blame him.

            When the knock comes at the door, I don’t bother looking up at first. I’m sitting close to Scorpius’ head, watching him. The same way I’ve watched him for nine days. I assume it must be the healers, or cleaners.

            “I’m sorry, but—” I look over my shoulder. Rose is standing in the doorway with a box. She inhales and asks nervously, “May I come in?”

            I look at Mr. Malfoy. He’s chewing on his lower lip, gazing at Rose without blinking, and also listening to whatever’s being said on the other end of the phone. “ _Excusez-moi un instant_.” He lowers the phone to his shoulder and says to me, “I need to have this conversation in private. I’ll be just around the corner.” He strides out the door, mobile already back to his ear.

            Rose hesitates. “If it’s a bad time—”

            “I put you on the list,” I tell her. “It’s okay.” I turn back around. Carefully, I adjust the blanket, tugging it up his chest a few centimeters.

            Rose sits down beside me. She holds the box in her lap, gazing at Scorpius. “I didn’t think you would. Put me on the list.”

            “You were together a long time. You’re important to him.”

            “Albus…that night—that night you saw us together, I need to tell you how sorry I—”

            I lift a hand, cutting her off. Then I reach over, and drop my hand on hers.

            Shaking my head, I say quietly, “I am too tired to be angry. Even if I wasn’t—what am I supposed to do? Hate you for wanting him back?” I glance at Rose. “I want him back too.”

            She wraps her fingers around mine. “He’ll be okay,” Rose says.

            “I know. I just need him to be okay a little faster than this.”

            Rose’s eyes take in Scorpius’ unconscious form. “He looks…” A bit in disbelief, Rose says, “He looks fine. Like he’s sleeping.”

            “I know. The unbelievable prick. The audacity to look good even when he’s been cursed.”

            “Do they have any ideas?”

            “If they do, they’re keeping it to themselves.”

            When I look over, I find Rose studying me. “When’s the last time you slept in your own bed?”

            “There’s no reason for me to sleep in my own bed when he’s here.”

            “Thank Merlin it’s you here.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “Because you’re obsessed. And that’s probably what he needs right now.” Rose lets go of my hand to open the box. “I wasn’t sure if you’d mind—” She pulls a full sized pillow out of the smaller box. It’s quilted in red and pink. “This was—our favourite pillow. We’d fight over it. Not really fighting, but… Anyways, I kept it. Even though I’d actually bought it for him in the first place. It was petty. I thought maybe…if you didn’t mind…”

            I look at the plain white pillow Scorpius’ head rests on.

            I take the pillow from Rose’s hands, and gingerly trade it out. When I sit back down, it’s as if the colour in the room has increased ten fold. It even seems to put more colour in his cheeks.

            “Is it okay if I just sit here for a bit?” Rose asks.

            It is, so we do.

 

When she’s leaving, Rose pauses at the door. “Not to pressure you, but—Hugo.” I avert my eyes, and Rose says, “He’d like to see you. He wants to be on the list.”

            “I just…don’t think I could look him in the eyes right now.”

            “Yeah. He knows why you did it, Albus. He’s not angry or upset. I mean, with Tim, of course, but—you saved his life. He wants to thank you.”

            Scratching my brow, I try to think of what to say. “I, ah…I’ve really been just focusing on Scorpius right now. Not…what happened that day. I don’t think I’m ready.”

            Rose smiles sadly. “Okay. Thank you, Albus.”

            “For what?”

            “For saving my brother’s life.”

            “I didn’t save anyone, Rose.”

            She starts to argue, but I turn my back on her, and return to holding Scorpius’ hand.

 

I whisper in Scorpius’ ear, “Remember that time we got into the devil’s tea? You stole it from Professor Lemarco, you fiend. Said it was for science. So you and I up on the Astronomy Tower, under the full moon, drinking devil’s tea as fast as we could. I wanted to stop because it tasted like cat piss, but you just kept saying, ‘for science, for science,’ so we downed it all. And we left a little bit, to swill around the leaves, so we could read our fortunes. I was high almost immediately. Your face was sparkling. Really sparkling, like I’d pulled stars out of the sky and thrown them across your face. I just wanted to touch you, so I was touching your face. Like this. Can you feel this? You were laughing at me, saying I was growing whiskers. The sky changed colour, and the world all around us was strange and unnatural. But I wasn’t scared, because I was with you, and you were just laughing, laughing. Whatever you saw made you so happy. And you said, our cups, we have to look at our cups. You did it perfectly, because you’re always brilliant. My brilliant Scorpius. You said you saw a house, and you must be meant to build things. You ended up on the peak of the Astronomy Tower, yelling at the top of your lungs that you were destined to be a carpenter. All of the professors were up on their brooms, trying to get you down, and you were cackling under the beautiful green sky, with the swirls of the dimensions behind your head, framing you like an angel, and I was so impossibly in love with you. I smashed my cup, do you remember? My hands weren’t working all that well, and I fumbled it and destroyed the thing, so I never knew my fortune. Whatever it was, I know it would have told me I was with you for always. Even then I knew it. I just watched you, madly in love with you, seeing you laugh at the stars, and you were glorious. Do you remember? Tell me you remember.”

 

The third week, I learn how to take care of Scorpius.

            His metabolic processes have slowed down, nearly to the point of stasis. He gets a tube full of nutrients every other day, but any more than that and it just goes right through him. The first time it happened, Mr. Malfoy flat out panicked and left the room. I went to find him, and he was shaking.

            “I never changed his diapers,” Mr. Malfoy said. “I never learned that.”

            “No one’s asking you to change a diaper. You’re a wizard. So take out your wand and get the fuck back in there.”

            That relaxed him, and besides, once we learned not to overfeed Scorpius, there have been no more accidents.

            Lucy, our helper on weekdays, will change him from his pajamas in the morning, discreetly wanding out and vanishing anything she needs to. At night, she returns to strip his clothes and gently wash him. Not a wand wash, but with soap and water and his own things that make him smell good.

            But there comes a night when I’m watching her, and I can’t stand it.

            “Can I help, please?” I ask, accidentally waking Mr. Malfoy from his doze.

            Lucy smiles, moving to make space for me on the bed.

            Hesitantly, I sit beside her. She’s probably only a little older than my mother, with dark eyes, and a sensible grey and black bun. Her face is perfectly creased from all the times she’s smiled. Lucy gestures to Scorpius’ buttons.

            I undo them, one by one. I push open his shirt, and I’m struck by how healthy he looks. His white skin with its dusting of pale blond hairs. I watch his chest and belly lift and lower as he breathes in and out.

            I cannot help myself. Pulling my legs up onto the bed, I lay my head over his chest. I put my ear right over his heart so I can hear its beat. Slow, but there. Still alive. I hold his arm and listen to his heart and it’s the closest I’ve come to crying since this whole thing started. But I’m not a man given to tears.

            The next night, I learn how to undress and redress Scorpius, and how to bathe him.

 

“Hæfde þa gefrunen hwanan sio fæhð aras, bealonið biorna,” I read, “him to bearme cwom maðþumfæt mære þurh ðæs meldan hond.” I look at Scorpius over the top of the book. “This is cheating, you know. You’re supposed to be reading to me. No response, then? All right, if you insist.”

            It’s the middle of the day, sun bright and high. I can’t remember the last time I was outside. I went home sometime last week to pack a suitcase, but since this whole thing started twenty three days ago, I’ve only left the hospital twice.

            Twenty three days. Twenty three days and nothing, nothing.

            I hear raised voices from down the hall, but that’s nothing new. People show up sometimes, wanting to be let in. The Minister sent word one day that he was in the hospital, that he’d like to speak to us. I just stared blankly at the messenger. Mr. Malfoy scribbled quick words on a piece of paper and said that was his reply. Once the messenger was gone, I asked what he’d said. Mr. Malfoy replied, “ _Stricta dormire_.”

            _Sleep tight_.

            I keep reading as Mr. Malfoy leans back to see who it is.

            “Albus, why does your mother have balloons that say Happy Birthday?”

            I turn around. At the other end of the hall, I can just see the top of Mum’s head from behind two security guards. Above it all are two balloons that, yes, say Happy Birthday.

            Mr. Malfoy looks at me in curiosity. “Is it your birthday?”

            “Is it August 23rd?”

            “It is.”

            “Then yes.”

            “Go see your mother.”

            “I’m fine—”

            “Albus, go see your mother.”

            Sighing, I close the book. I put it on the bed, laying Scorpius’ hand overtop of it. “Don’t go anywhere,” I tell him dryly.

            Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the tearoom, balloons tethered to the table and floating above my head. Mum always gets me balloons on my birthday, because she knows I hate them.

            She returns with two pieces of white cake. Smiling, she sets one down in front of me and takes a seat. “It’s not a birthday without cake.”

            I nod, looking at it listlessly.

            “You’ve lost weight. And you were in no position for that to start. Must be the hospital food turning you off.”

            “You don’t honestly think Mr. Malfoy would let me eat the food here, do you?”

            “No. I don’t imagine he would.” Just to have something to do with my hands, I pick up the fork to poke at the cake. Mum says gently, “I’ve called. More times than I can count.”

            “Oh.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, pressing on it with my thumb. It does nothing. I toss it on the table with a shrug. “Dead again.”

            “A lot of people have called. They’re worried.”

            “No one needs to worry about me, they need to worry about him.”

            “I know you’ll want to say no, but if you felt up to it—we could have dinner tonight—”

            “You’re right, I’m saying no.”

            “You wouldn’t have to leave the hospital. We could do it right here. Just a few of us. Your granddad’s sick with worry. Your brother and sister want to see you.”

            “Are they taking care of Zamora?”

            “They’re trying. She doesn’t much care for Lily and James, but she’s been really sweet with Granddad.”

            “Good.” I shake my head, separating out a forkful and slowly disassembling it. “No one needs to come here. I didn’t even realize it was my birthday. I don’t want to do anything until he’s better to celebrate with me.”

            “That might be a while.”

            “It’ll be any second.”

            Mum nods, folding her hands on the table. She’s watching me taking apart my cake, but doesn’t comment on it. “What’s happening with work?”

            “I quit.”

            “You what?”

            Shrugging, I say, “A few days ago, I got a letter from Esmerline. Sensitive to your needs, appreciate a timetable on your return, this and that. So I resigned.”

            “Did you—really think about that, or was it just a reaction—”

            I snap, “There will be other jobs. There’s only one Scorpius.”

            Mum presses her lips together. Then she smiles. “You’re right. You made the right decision.” She leans forward, trying to catch my eyes. “You were always wildly overqualified for that job anyways. And you’re needed here. I’m proud of you.” I give my head a shake, looking down. “What is it?”

            “You’re holding back because you think I’m fragile. Whatever it is you really want to say, you can just go ahead. I’m pretty numb.”

            Inhaling, Mum says, “Have you talked to anyone? About what happened?”

            “Which part?”

            “Tim,” Mum says gently. I shake my head. “I never thought—he always seemed so incapable of caring about anything except where to find the next party. I even thought knowing someone like that might be good for you, which feels like shit now. I’ve kept my ears open, you know—what I can get here and there from Dad. It turns out that girl, her apartment was filled with all kinds of extremist Squib ranting—”

            “Why do I need to know this?”

            Surprised, Mum says, “Well—”

            “Did they find anything that would help Scorpius?”

            “I—don’t know about that.”

            “Then I don’t care. I don’t care where Tim hooked up with her, how they got this way, how all the pieces fit together. It’s done.”

            Mum glances away. “You sound like your cousin.” I don’t reply to that. “Hugo really wants to see you. To see you both.”

            “I’m not ready to talk to him about this.”

            “Albus.” Mum drops her head back, then looks at me. “You killed someone. Someone you knew, someone we all knew. You killed him.”

            “And?”

            “And…I’m going to say something you won’t want to hear. But I’m going to say it because I love you. You know how all this time, you’ve given your dad endless grief about how he never talked to anyone? How he kept it all in and never dealt with the things he did?”

            “It’s different.”

            “It’s not. You’ve got the same look in your eyes that he gets every time. And you’re doing the same thing he is. ‘I’ll deal with it later, once I’ve taken care of this other thing.’ Then there’s one more thing, and one more thing, and then you’re fifty years old and you’ve got a canker in your heart because you couldn’t talk about the things you’d done.”

            “Scorpius is going to wake up.”

            “What if he doesn’t?”

            “Then I’ll throw myself off the nearest bridge.”

            “Don’t joke like that,” Mum says sharply.

            “Do I _look_ like I’m joking?”

            “Albus, sometimes people—don’t come back from these things. Your Uncle Neville—his parents lived in this hospital for forty years before they died. Sometimes it doesn’t go the way you wish it would. You know that better than anyone.”

            “I refuse to accept that.”

            “Life doesn’t care what you will and won’t accept. It doesn’t care about what you can handle. Sometimes it just lands on you and the only thing you can do is figure out how to respond to the shit you’ve been given. I’m not telling you not to be hopeful. I want you to hang onto hope with tooth and claw. I want you to also be prepared if hope isn’t enough.”

            I shrug again, tossing my fork down on the plate. “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. But I doubt we will.”

            “Okay. But you really need to talk about—”

            “I talk to Scorpius. I tell him everything I’m thinking.”

            “That’s good. Eventually, though, you’ll need someone who can talk back.”

            “What I need is him.”

            She wants to argue. Mum knows, however, when I am unmovable, so she smiles and says, “Stop playing with your food and have some.”

 

“I should have bought you a gift.”

            I glance at Mr. Malfoy in surprise. We’re in our usual seats, me at Scorpius’ head, Mr. Malfoy at Scorpius’ feet. He looks upset with himself.

            “Twenty five is an important year,” Mr. Malfoy says. “Your first quarter century. I should have remembered.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “I do. Scorpius would have made a fuss of it. He’ll be cross that I couldn’t even remember.”

            “The specialist from Luxembourg comes in two days, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “The only thing I want for my birthday is Scorpius waking up. So if the specialist figures it out and we go back to normal, that’s all I could ever ask and more.”

            Mr. Malfoy nods. “Two days.”

 

The specialist from Luxembourg comes, and Scorpius doesn’t wake up.

            The obscure curse expert from Tobago comes and goes, and the witch doctor from Mongolia as well. Shamans, sorcerers, medicine men. They come at the rate of two a week, with their promises and cautious optimism, and leave with heavy pockets and no results.

            St. Mungo healers come in less and less. A junior healer will pop in twice a day to record vitals, but that’s the most we see of them. At first, we saw a group of healers in here every day. Then it was every other day, then every three.

            Now we see Healer Morrow once a week. He only ever arrives with backup, a different healer each time, and never students after the dressing down Mr. Malfoy gave him in front of the new batch. He shows up to tell us that he knows nothing new, and it’s gotten to the point where Mr. Malfoy doesn’t bother showing him the sharp side of his tongue. We just stare blankly at Healer Morrow until he leaves.

            Scorpius lies there, inhaling and exhaling, unmoving.

            I don’t even know if he’s in there. He must be. Where else could he have gone?

           

We have a routine.

            We wake up at seven. Mr. Malfoy is in charge of picking out Scorpius’ clothes. Always something loose, but not pajamas, not after that first bit. On weekdays, Lucy will change Scorpius, but on weekends Mr. Malfoy does it himself. We let go of the man who used to come in on Saturdays and Sundays, agreeing that we’d rather take care of it ourselves. Mr. Malfoy or Lucy will lift Scorpius’ limp body, reverently undressing and dressing him, combing his hair, washing his face.

            Mr. Malfoy and I eat breakfast. Nibbly is the one who brings it. She doesn’t like being kept separate from Scorpius, but Mr. Malfoy told her that she needs to be in charge of the Manor while he’s away. Nibbly has taken the responsibility to heart. She shows up every morning regardless, with egg whites and toast for Mr. Malfoy, cereal and fruit for me.

            When breakfast is done, Mr. Malfoy starts work. He has a desk he pulls out, a massive wooden thing that looks like it was new when William the Bastard landed on our shores, and he puts up a silencing shield so as not to disturb us. He writes and calculates and works his phone, increasingly comfortable with his mobile as the days go on.

            He says to me grimly one day, “Albus—I think I should purchase a—lap topper?”

            So he gets a laptop, and pecks out single letters on the keyboard, one at a time, glaring at the computer. He gets a little faster with it each day.

            While Mr. Malfoy works, I read to Scorpius.

            At first, I had to stop after a bit to rest my voice. Except I thought about him, laying there in the silence. I don’t know if he can hear me or not. If he can and I’m choosing not to speak because my throat aches, what does that say about me? So I learn to read aloud for hours at a time, sipping honeyed herbal tea the whole while to stave off soreness.

            I finish _Beowulf_ and move onto _The Song of Roland_. I try to read it to him in the original language, but Mr. Malfoy says to me, “Albus, if you don’t stop butchering that beautiful poem, I’m going to drive this quill into my brain.” So I read it to him in English.

            Then I start on _In Search of Lost Time_. I don’t think about why I’m choosing such a long story.

            Lunch comes, and more often than not we eat in silence. Sometimes we’ll talk, if there’s some new lead on an expert, or if Mr. Malfoy’s particularly frustrated about something. I rarely initiate conversation, because I’m only ever here, and Scorpius is my sole focus. Mr. Malfoy already knows everything I want to say, or don’t want to say, and I find that’s a comfort.

            After lunch is typically Mr. Malfoy’s time to search through his endless list of contacts for anyone, anywhere, who can help Scorpius. He’s relentless in his quest. I leave him to it, because I know that he is better at it than me, and that my job here is to keep Scorpius company. To make sure he’s never alone.

            I read to him all afternoon, and then we have supper. There’s a series of chefs that make our meals. They’re always flawless, and if it were any other situation I’d appreciate the effort that goes into making the vegetarian masterpieces set before me. But right now, it’s only food. I eat it and immediately forget what I ate.

            Mr. Malfoy takes over reading in the evening. He reads children’s books to Scorpius. Tales of brave little witches and wizards, trickster creatures, fantastic castles. They all come from Scorpius’ childhood library. I know without asking that they’re the stories Scorpius’ mother used to read to him.

            I sit in a comfortable chair at the back of the room, reading Shakespeare, playing on my phone, deleting any messages that come in without bothering to look at them. Sometimes I watch movies on Mr. Malfoy’s computer. Not often, though. I find that I get completely absorbed in them, and when they finish I’ll realize I’ve disconnected entirely from this room, and the guilt is so intense I want to vomit.

            Around nine or so, I start the work of getting Scorpius ready for bed. Lucy doesn’t come for that anymore, because I want it to be my job. Mr. Malfoy leaves so we can be alone, going for a walk around the hospital. I take off Scorpius’ clothes, whispering to him how lovely his body is, how I look forward to when he can touch me again. I gently sponge his skin, cleaning off whatever minor particles of the day are clinging to him. I maneuver his boneless limbs into pajamas. Always something silky, something to make him feel good, even though he only ever wanted to be in flannel trousers and a t-shirt, if he wanted to wear anything to bed at all. I thread my fingers through his curls, then I massage moisturizer into his face and hands. When I’m done, I kiss his forehead, and I say, “All done.”

            Mr. Malfoy goes to bed earlier than I do. He’ll kiss Scorpius on the head first, then me, and he’ll murmur against my hair, “Goodnight, my boys.” He’ll lie down, and cast a cloud of darkness over himself. He sleeps like the dead, except for when the nightmares come. I’m used to having a father whose dreams woke him up screaming, so it never bothers me.

            Around eleven, I’ll get in bed with Scorpius. I’ll cuddle close to him under the blankets, and I’ll whisper to him for as long as I can keep my eyes open. I tell him stories, I tell him _our_ story, until I fall asleep.

            Then the next morning we wake up, and do it all again.

 

On the thirty seventh day, one of the security guards knocks softly on the door. This always means that someone is here who’s not on the list, and they’re not going willingly. Mr. Malfoy confers with her, then comes back to me.

            “Albus, your brother and sister are making a nuisance of themselves. They’re threatening to file a report declaring you missing if you don’t at least show them your face.”

            “Offer Lily five grams of cocaine and she’ll be someone else’s problem.”

            I look up when Mr. Malfoy puts a hand to my neck. He smiles at me, as kindly as his face is able, which is more than anyone would expect. “You can leave this room for twenty minutes without it being the end of the world. We know you’re devoted. But you need to fuck off and give me some time alone with my son.”

            Pausing, I close my book. “You could have just said that earlier,” I mutter.

            “You wouldn’t have listened.”

            So I get my phone, which is still dead, only because it’s habit, and I leave the room.

            I know the security guards by face but not name. Mr. Malfoy deals with them. Apparently they’re under instruction to listen to me as if I were Mr. Malfoy, but I’ve never tested that. I walk down the hall, uncomfortable. Not liking to be this far from Scorpius.

            The big man, the one with the shaved head, gives me a glance. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, “that they bothered you.”

            “No trouble, sir.” He nods down the hall. “We just put them in there. Hospital staff’s not crazy about it, mind.”

            “Well, the shits I have to give to those incompetents is zero to none, so…” I shrug, and say, “Thank you.”

            I walk up to the door he motioned to. It’s a patient room, and no, I don’t imagine St. Mungo’s is thrilled about us commandeering another room. They already think it’s a waste of space giving Scorpius his own room instead of secreting him away in the Janus Thickey.

            The door is cracked open, and I hear Lily say, “What are we going to do, Jamie?”

            I pause, hand out. I let it hang over the doorknob.

            “I don’t know, Lil.”

            “What if—”

            “I know—”

            “Let me say it. No one is saying it and I need to hear it said out loud because this family is a family that never says things until we’re trying to hurt each other or heal each other after some fucking tragedy.”

            “Okay. Say it.”

            “What if he dies?” Lily says, her voice small. “What if Scorpius dies?”

            James doesn’t reply. I can’t speak, can’t move. No one has said those words. Certainly not where I can hear it. Having them out, in the open—I can’t think.

            Lily goes on. “If Scorpius dies, it will _kill_ Albus.”

            “I know.”

            “So what do we do?”

            James lets out a long sigh. “Whatever he needs.”

            “He needs Scorpius.”

            “Whatever happens, Lily—we need to just shut up and be there for him. If he needs us to be sentimental and weird about it, we’ll do it. If he needs us to take the piss, we’ll do it. If he needs us to just fuck off forever, we’ll do it. I mean, not without a fight, that last one, but you understand what I mean. We follow his lead.”

            “I hate this. I hate it.”

            “Yeah.”

            “If I could have killed that bastard myself—”

            “I fantasize about it. Lighting Tim Thompson up like a _fucking Christmas tree_.” I hear that same growl in James’ voice that he gave Dad after destroying his wand. The floor trembles with it.

            If Lily notices, she certainly doesn’t say it. “I didn’t think Albus had it in him. I mean, we joked about him being a dark wizard—and I’m not saying he is—but you heard what the aurors said. He didn’t even have to raise his voice to use the curse. It’s like he murdered him with his soul.”

            “Can you blame him? After what he did to Scorpius? What he almost did to Dad?”

            “And Hugo. Albus saved Hugo.”

            James’ voice is quieter. “Yeah. He did that too.”

            “Let’s find Tim’s grave. Let’s dig him up and cut him apart and fucking revive the pieces so we can hack him to death with shovels.”

            “I hesitate to say this, Lil, but I’ve never agreed more with a plan of yours.”

            There’s a long silence.

            “We couldn’t actually,” Lily says.

            “No, it would be mad.”

            Another long silence.

            Lily says, “But if we did.”

            I bend my head, feeling the corners of my mouth trying to tug upwards. I knock softly on the door, pushing it open. “I think there’s already enough of a mess been made without you two participating in necromancy.”

            Springing up, Lily bounds over to me. “Al.” She throws her arms around me. I pat her back, sighing.

            James gets to his feet. “Hello.”

            “Hello yourself.”

            “We sent you so many messages,” Lily says, pulling back. “We called and called.”

            “We know you’re in a tough spot,” James adds. “But we needed to know you’re okay.”

            “This is pretty fucking far from okay,” I reply. Lily wraps her hands around mine, biting her lower lip. I look between them, my insane brother and sister, half considering raising the dead on my behalf just to get out their rage. “I know you’re worried. I know everyone’s worried. I just can’t deal with that right now.”

            “That’s fair enough,” James says. “In theory. But you’re my little brother.”

            “And my big brother,” Lily says.

            “And we want to be where we can help you.”    

            “Where you can help me most is at home, looking after yourselves. What I need, really need, is knowing that you’re both looking after each other and getting better. If you want to help, do that. You can’t be coming around here, causing a scene. Those people out there don’t give a shit that you’re Harry and Ginny Potter’s children. They’re on Mr. Malfoy’s dime, and they’ll pitch you out on your bony arses. I appreciate that you’re here, but don’t come around unless I ask you to.”

            James and Lily look at one another.

            “Okay,” James says reluctantly.

            “If that’s what you need,” Lily says.

            “It is,” I say. I swing Lily’s hand a little. “For right now, though, since you’re here…let’s sit a few minutes. Tell me about the Burrow. And Zamora. And Granddad. Tell me things.”

            Lily brightens. “I’ve been making outfits for the gnomes!”

           

I whisper to Scorpius, “Do you remember—it was just after we got together. I’d spelled the ceiling to look like the night sky, and you said, why are we sitting in here when we could just go outside? I said because it was cold, and you said, we’re wizards. And so we went outside and laid down all these blankets, and you put up this heating spell that felt so warm and cozy. We were laying there, the two of us, on our backs, and I was holding your hand—like this—and we did that thing we did as kids. Do you remember? We looked at the stars and told the stories of imaginary constellations. I’m shit at making things up, you know that, so I’ve only ever come up with the stupidest things. Dancing pineapples, do you remember? Ten years later and you still just say those words and I pretend like I’m annoyed but I’m not, because it means you remember. That night, it was you and I out in the backyard, two grown men making up ridiculous stories. You told that terrible story about Jack the Ripper’s pantaloons, and it was just the worst. You knew it was too, but you really committed. You’re so funny. I love how you’re like that. How when you commit, you do it completely. Case in point, it’s been forty one days and you refuse to wake up. I’ll outlast you, love. I’ll be waiting right here when you open your eyes.”

 

One night at dinner, Mr. Malfoy breaks the silence with a laugh.

            Startled, I ask, “What is it?”

            Shaking his head, he cuts at his brussel sprouts. “I was just thinking about Severus Snape.”

            “Were you really?”

            “I was wondering what he’d think of our motley crew.”

            “Conclusions?”

            “There are layers.” Mr. Malfoy leans back in his seat, amused. “First, just the thought of him and your _name_. Albus Severus. The old buzzard and the man who killed him. The fact that your father gave you those names together—Severus would have been _livid_.”

            I put down my utensils, smiling a bit. “Would he?”

            “Oh, he would have been irate! The sentimentality of it—it was such a wildly inappropriate gesture on your father’s part. I don’t know why your mother let him get away with it. So the matter of your name, he would have been furious. Secondly, the thought of you and Scorpius being friends, let alone dating. His head would have exploded.” Mr. Malfoy starts to laugh. “Oh no, I can hardly imagine it.”

            “That bad?”

            “His voice, I can hear it in my head.” Mr. Malfoy speaks in a low, nasal tone, dripping with disdain. “A Malfoy—and a Potter. I would rather perish, Draco, as you should from shame.”

            “What was he like?”

            “Snape? He was—quite the bitch, actually. And petty. He was _gloriously_ petty. Hated your father. There was no secret respect or admiration under the surface. He hated your dad. I loved him for that.”

            “He was a bully.”

            “Yes. I’d like to tell you that bothers me, but I’ve always been a bully. So I appreciated things in Severus Snape that another man would balk at. If he could see us here, now, he would be so perplexed. He’d probably thank the heavens Voldemort killed him before he could see this come to pass.”

            “And he was a good man?”

            Mr. Malfoy makes a face. “I wouldn’t go that far. He was on the right side, in the end, or at least the winning side, but…I think he’d be unhappy to hear anyone characterize him that way. He believed most of the things the Death Eaters did. But he hated Voldemort, and that’s why he did what he did.”

            “Dad’s always said Snape was one of the bravest men he ever knew.”

            At that, Mr. Malfoy smirks. “Bravery—bravery, I suspect, had very little to do with it. I knew Severus Snape in a way your father never could. I think Snape ran on spite, and spite alone.”

            “And love. At least a little.”

            “He was obsessed with your grandmother. I don’t know that I’d call obsession love.”

            “That’s very politically correct of you.”

            “Scorpius, did you _hear_ what he just called me?”

            We both look at Scorpius, smiling. And he only lies there. His eyes closed, chest rising and falling. As far from us as he was the day we arrived here.

            I falter, and so does Mr. Malfoy. After a moment, he clears his throat, and goes back to cutting up his brussel sprouts. I pick up my utensils, and we eat in silence.

 

Healer Morrow arrives one day and asks to speak to Mr. Malfoy alone. So they leave for nearly twenty minutes.

            When Mr. Malfoy returns, he sits down and just gazes at Scorpius. He’s flexing his fingers absentmindedly, running the tips again and again against his palms.

            “What is it?” I ask.

            All he’ll say is, “The curse breaker from Rarotonga comes on Thursday.”

            The curse breaker from Rarotonga leaves on Friday.

 

Scorpius is always here, but it feels like he’s a million miles away. I don’t search like I used to for signs of interest or engagement. He doesn’t react to anything. Not the temperature, or the volume of our voices. Not the time of day, or visitors.

            The sameness of him is oppressive, in a way. We go through our routines, but one day I wonder if it matters. If he’d be the exact same if we weren’t here at all. I wonder who we’re helping here. If it’s him, or just ourselves.

            The thought makes it difficult to breathe. It makes it impossible to breathe. I fall onto my knees in the hallway, gasping.

            They all force me down into the A&E. I’m only there as long as it takes to sign a piece of paper saying I don’t consent to medical inquiry. I’m not an idiot; I know I’ve had a panic attack. I’m back upstairs in time for dinner.  

            That night, Mr. Malfoy tries to tell me I’m burning myself out. I give him a dead eyed stare and tell him, “If you try to have me taken out of here, you won’t like the consequences.”

            So I stay in this room, with the love of my life, as he is here and not here.

 

On the forty eighth day, Mr. Malfoy gets a letter. He stands to read it as I tell Scorpius about the Narrator lying to Albertine to get her to come to Paris with him. I’ve discovered, far too late, how much I hate this story, but we’ve come too far now.

            Mr. Malfoy crumples the letter in his fist. “God _damn_ it.” The desperation in his voice is…unfamiliar. And frightening.

            “What is it?”

            He unfolds the sheet, regretful. Smoothing it out as much as he can, Mr. Malfoy says, “A possibility that’s…less of a possibility.”

            “Why?”

            “There’s a…man in Tibet.” Mr. Malfoy is compulsively running his hand over the page. “He’s supposed to be extraordinary. A performer of miracles. He’s been in the same cave of the Himalayas for fifty years. He won’t come out for anything. He says if I want to see him, I have to go there. Other nonsense.”

            Gazing at him, I ask quietly, “Are we at the point where you have to perform a quest to reach a shaman in Tibet?”

            Mr. Malfoy shakes his head, looking at the page. “The things he wants—I could have them in an hour. Getting up the mountain, that’s not an issue either. But I’m not _leaving_ my son.”

            “Do we have a choice?”

            Mr. Malfoy stands there, helpless. “I can’t just leave Scorpius. But…if there’s the slimmest chance…”

            “Are we at the point where we’re accepting the slimmest chance?”

            Closing his eyes, Mr. Malfoy admits, “Albus, I don’t know what else to do. I just have this—terror, that if I leave this room for longer than five minutes, he’ll stop breathing, and he’ll just _go_. If I’m not here and that happens, it’s not a matter of forgiving myself. It’s a matter of whether I would survive at all.”

            I look down at the book, thinking.

            Then I look up at him. “Go,” I say. “I’d do it if I could, but we both know that I’m not fit to be away from him. You’re stronger than me, and you’re a good negotiator, and if there’s anything to be had from this man, you’re the one to get it. I’m good at being with Scorpius. I’m good at taking care of him. We each have our place. So you need to go.”

            The next day, bright and early, Mr. Malfoy stands in the room with a heavy fur coat on, rucksack on his back. There’s something inside that’s glowing, but I don’t need to know what it is. An old cup lies in the corner, trembling a little.

            Mr. Malfoy holds Scorpius’ hand, telling him, “Look after Albus. He needs it. And you listen to me—Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, if you leave while I’m not here, I will never forgive you.” Mr. Malfoy lets out a shaky breath, then sets down Scorpius’ hand.

            He turns to me, giving me a hug. I pat his back, staring over his shoulder. Letting me loose, he goes to the corner, touching the cup, and the portkey sends him halfway around the world.

            I stand, alone, for a few seconds.          

            Then I walk to the door, opening it. “John?” The man with the bald head looks at me in surprise. I doubt he thought I knew his name. “Put Hugo on the list.”

 

On the fifty second day, I have a shower.

            Don’t get me wrong. I have before this point. But it’s always a once-a-week thing, a quick in and out, just in there long enough to wash my hair. The rest of the week, I only use cleaning spells. By the end of the week, if I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I see the glossy reflection of my own disgusting hair.

            Today, though—I have a real shower.

            I go in with Scorpius’ things in a little bucket. I use his shampoo, filling my hands with suds and bringing them close to my face to inhale the scent. His soap, the one that smells of wood and spices, that makes him smell masculine and irresistible. I rub it all over my body, forcing myself to take my time. This is the first he’s been without me or my father in the room since he arrived here on July 31st. John and Nasimiyu are under instruction to watch Scorpius at all times. I’m forcing myself to trust them, even though I know that trust can be misplaced.

            I stay in the shower for five long minutes, then I get out and dry myself off. I dress in the same uniform I’ve worn for nearly two months. Jeans and a jumper. Getting some of the moisture from my hair, I look at myself in the mirror.

            Merlin’s beard. I’ve aged ten years. My face is drawn, my eyes solemn. The suspiciousness has left my face, replaced by exhaustion. I’m definitely thinner. Bordering on unhealthily so.

            It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is Scorpius, and getting him back. We have reached the point where the field of options has narrowed precipitously. I need Scorpius. Or life isn’t worth living.

            Getting my things together, I leave the shower room, walking back towards Scorpius’ room.

            I keep towelling my hair as I walk. To my relief, John is standing right outside the room, staring in at Scorpius. He did exactly what he said he would. Something is different, though. The door is open, which it was not when I left. I see someone sitting by Scorpius’ bed.

            Lowering the towel, I feel that eerie numbness that’s been my reality for fifty two days. Bordered by that other thing. The thing I only consider when it’s late, and I can’t bear to speak anymore.

            I walk into the room and shut the door.

            Hugo is in my seat. He turns and grins at me, bounding to his feet. “Albus! Am I happy to see you!”

            He holds his arms out to me, but I walk past him, saying, “You’re in my chair.”

            “Right! Right, I can just—” He goes to grab another as I put down my towel and toiletries. I check Scorpius, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Just the same as when I left. Hugo pulls a chair up further down the bed, taking a seat. “He looks better than I thought he would.”

            I take my chair, slipping a hand under Scorpius’ arm so I can put his hand on his stomach. I try to move him, here and there, so that he doesn’t get sores.

            Hugo jumps in to fill the silence. “I waited for you to call. I called you. I mean, you know I called you. And messaged. I didn’t hear anything from you.” I don’t reply, running my hand up and down Scorpius’ arm. “I know—I know you’re in a terrible position. Christ, I know that. I know I’m not really on your list of priorities. But I had so much to say to you. And Scorpius. I’ve been worried half out of my mind over you both. Hardly anyone’s seen you. It’s a big mystery in the papers. And things have been so—so awful. About Tim. About everything.”

            He pauses, waiting for me to say anything. But I just watch Scorpius, the tranquility of his face.

            “It’s been—really ugly, Albus. To be honest. I really missed having my best mates about, you know? Everyone was just gone, so fast, and all because they did it to one another. Tim—Tim maimed me, and I didn’t even know. He was my best friend, and he did this to me. He did this to Scorpius. And you…well…” Hugo lets out a laugh. “I would have never called that, you know? I mean any of it, least of all—Tim doing this to me, the unbelievable prick, but—you saving me. I mean, of course I knew you’d do your best, but the way it happened. All this time you had perfect aim and never told me. Scared the literal shit out of me when it happened. What was left, at least. You really—if you’d been a few centimeters off—but you weren’t. Did you know you could do that? You must have. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t know. You did know you could do that. Otherwise, I just got lucky, eh?”

            “You were lucky. Because I nearly aimed for you.”

            There’s a silence. I stroke Scorpius’ arm, and from the edge of my vision, I see Hugo turn his head slowly to look at me.

            I tell him, “I know what you did.”

            “I don’t know what you’re—”

            I look at Hugo and he stops talking. “I know.” His face is the perfect picture of baffled innocence. But in his eyes, there is something far too cautious. I turn my head away from him, because I can’t stand the sight of his face. I run my fingers over Scorpius’ arm to keep myself grounded. “I’ve had a long time to think about it. I’ve had fifty two days to think about it, even though I figured it out there, as it was happening. I’ve had all this time to think about it, and I have the shape of it. I even know where it started.”

            “Albus, I don’t know what you think you—”

            “Azerbaijan,” I say, and that shuts him up. “I was thinking about it, and I realized, you’ve never told that story. It wasn’t in any book, any article. I’d read them all, and you never put that story in print. A story like that? Children being killed by their parents for not having magic? There was no way you wouldn’t write that story. You would have won awards. Only you sat on it, and that’s so unlike you. And when you told me that story, you told me like you knew. Like it wasn’t hearsay, but that you really knew. I think you saw it. I think you saw them kill the children, and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. I think you saw it, and it changed you.”

            “Albus—”

            “And I was thinking and thinking about Tim, and it made no sense. Tim has never had to struggle for anything in his life, never had any hardship, never been challenged. Never really shown any interest in anything beside himself. How on earth did he get this way? How was all this going on underneath, how did it all start? Then I remembered: he was in Azerbaijan with you. You were both there. You saw the Squib children be murdered, and you both…changed.”

            The clouds shift, and a beam of light comes down directly over Scorpius’ right eye. I raise a hand, waving my fingers, and the blinds come down just enough to cut off the light. Hugo says nothing.

            “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. To see that. I think you were only nineteen. Maybe twenty? You see something like that, and you’re never the same. I can understand that, I can sympathize with that. What happened next—it’s unconscionable. Because you came home, and instead of trying to make things better, you did the stupid teenager thing of thinking some big grand gesture would make a change. You looked at our fucked up world, at this fucked up country, and thought to yourselves, if I just press this button and that button, if I make this and that sacrifice, this is what will make it better. It was naïve and arrogant and cruel. It was so stupid. I know you think you were both smart, and yes, you were clever enough to keep from being detected, but the whole thing was predicated on idiocy.”

            I want him to deny it. I don’t want him to deny it. I want to throttle him. I want to turn back time to keep this from ever happening.

            “Your neat little plan. I’ve thought about so much, and I don’t know for sure, but I have theories. Tim’s aunt and uncle—I remember years ago, him complaining about how he’d inherited their things, that his dad had forced him to take them. They ran a shop for obscure spells and the like. Tim could have found the spell for what he did to Scorpius in there. What you really needed, though, was something to scare witches and wizards. Something to really twist the knife, to make them see how fragile their superiority truly was. That’s where Richie Vega came in. I’m not sure how you found him. Maybe he found you. Maybe through Tim’s thing, or maybe he wrote you a fan letter trying to show off. Maybe through one of your innumerable contacts. But you found this fifteen-year-old boy who had this terrifying spell. You made him feel special. Made him feel listened to.

            “And then you all killed someone together.”

            Still flabbergasted, I say, “I saw you on New Years. We all went out together. You and me and Scorpius and Tim, we went out and drank and danced. And the whole time, you and Tim had already murdered someone and destroyed a teenage boy. I can’t—I can’t fathom it. I can’t fathom it, because we love you. You were always everyone’s favourite. You were _my_ favourite. I loved you, Hugo. I loved you best. But all this time—you _hated_ us.”

            “I love you, of course I love you—”

            “You don’t know what love is. And before you get cheeky, that’s not a crack at your orientations, it’s you being a sociopath. People who love one another don’t do things like this. You’ve always been—head strong. When you think you’re right, there’s no moving you. It’s the bloody Weasley in you. You were always so eager to run away, to get away from us, no caring about what it did to your mum and dad. What you thought was always right, what you needed was always what you needed and that was the end of it. So you got it in your head that this was the way to change things, and my God, how much you must have hated us all to go through with it.”

            Hugo says calmly, “I don’t hate anyone. I love you all—”

            “But you must have hated Rose most of all. I cannot guess at the depths of it. Your sister and I have had our differences—we’ve had wars—but at the bottom of it, I still love her. I get angry at her because I want her to be better, and because I know she has my number and that bothers me. But you—you set out to destroy her. You launched this in the middle of her quest to get Squibs barred from Hogwarts. It would have already destabilized her career, but then you got her to resign her job. That’s the only thing she’s ever cared about. Or that we said she cared about. I bet you think that’s still true. But she wouldn’t have let it go if she didn’t care about you more. If she didn’t feel regret, if she didn’t want to change. If she hadn’t believed you. You were so giddy after she got up there. I bet you loved it. The way the crowd turned on her, how humiliated she must have felt. How she forced herself up there for you. She’s done at the Ministry after that. And even if your plans blew up, and everyone found it was you who’d done it, Christ, she’d be done in the magical world altogether. I never realized how much you hated her, and from your twisted perspective, I suppose I understand it. You’d seen what happens when witches and wizards reject Squib children, and here was Rose, throwing them under the bus, not because she had any deep ideological concerns about it, but because it would get her political points. That must have set you off good and proper. So there was you and Tim, making your plans, punishing the people you thought deserved it.

            “And sacrificing those you thought no one would miss. They were _people_ , Hugo. I don’t expect you to understand that. For you, they were a means to an end. But they were people who had already been shit on and shit on and shit on by life, and instead of trying to help them, you destroyed them from the inside out. I know you have all these illusions about making society better, but you don’t get to say that after what you did to Eric and Fatima and to the woman whose name I don’t even know. I don’t know what you told yourself. The ends justify the means? For the greater good? It all means the same fucking thing, and what it means is murder.”

            There’s this tingle in my jaw. I don’t know if I’m just angry or if I’m going to puke. “It was all going well for you, though. Exactly as you planned it. Tim’s dad is Minister, so it would have been no problem for Tim to get in there and walk off with all those records. I imagine you both watched Eric and Fatima to make sure you’d gotten away with it, and you had. Two people with no families, no friends, mentally ill, isolated from magical society. The perfect targets to practice on. I bet you felt really smug and clever about it. Your little plans, going so well. Then I came in and really fucked it up for you. I’m not sure it ever occurred to you that someone would have noticed the similarities between the two, let alone that the person would be me. Because I don’t give a shit about anyone. Or at least that’s what everyone says.

            “But we both know that’s not true, don’t we. That’s why you two never asked me to be a part of it. I’m mouthy and vocal about Squib rights, but I don’t hate my family. I’d never agree to attacking the homeless as a fucking _test_. I would never lie to everyone, pretend to be something I’m not. I would never attack my father, no matter what he’d done. He once cut me across my face, and all I could manage was an _Expelliarmus_. You know me. I don’t know you, not really, but you know me. So you didn’t ask me to help. Because you knew the next thing I would have done was tell my father.

            “I told you what I’d found, and you both clearly panicked. I don’t know if the plan all along was to take your magic, but if it was, you moved up the plan. Less than a day after I told you, Tim took your magic. Make it look like you were unassailable. And you were. It never occurred to me—not once, not ever, that you would have done this to yourself. It seemed like you were being so brave about it. I was so proud of you. You’ve always been the bravest person I ever knew, and I loved you so much for how brave you were. All the while, this was just another step towards hurting my father. To terrify everyone. To terrify everyone to show them that not even their heroes were safe. To terrorize them into being kind, as if that would ever work.

            “Do you know what’s really funny about this whole thing? You probably would have changed things for Squibs in this country if you had just stopped there. If it had just been you who lost your magic. You got up on that stage and you were so powerful, and everyone was listening. People were really changing their minds. If you could change your sister’s mind, you could do anything. I honestly, truly think there would have been a revolution for Squibs in Britain if you had just…stopped…there.

            “But you didn’t. I don’t know if you both made that decision, or just Tim. Because Tim was always an idiot, and he needed that big gesture. He needed that recognition for whatever he thought of as a good deed. He almost blew himself in that club because he punched one racist. He would have needed to do what you’d both set out to do—to attack Dad in front of all those people. I don’t really know where the girl came into it. If she was there all along, or if she came along later. My assumption is later, because the more people are involved in a conspiracy, the more unruly it becomes. I think you found someone who suited your means, and you meant to have her take the fall for the whole thing, and walk away as if you were innocent. I’ve always thought you were smart, Hugo. Smarter than most, maybe smarter than nearly everyone. You had to know that it wouldn’t work. Even if you took Dad’s magic, the backlash against Squibs would be unimaginable. And it has been. I’ve seen the papers. I’ve seen the stories about the harassment, the arrests. It all backfired.

            “Only you went ahead anyways. You went ahead, knowing that my father would be maimed, that people were likely to be killed. And this time it was Scorpius who got in your way. Your friend. My everything. He got in the way, and Tim did this to him. He killed that woman without a second thought. I thought he was taking you hostage, but really he was just trying to get you both out of there. I was so scared he was going to hurt you, kill you. I was as terrified as you wanted me to be. And I almost let you both go. But then you said something, and I knew what you’d done. Do you know what it was?” Hugo doesn’t say anything. Softly, I recite, “Albus, please—please don’t let him hurt me.”

            I let out a short, bitter laugh. “I know what you’ll say. ‘I was scared, I didn’t have magic, there was nothing I could do, anyone would have said that.’ But I have known you your whole life, and you are _fearless_. I saw you take on bullies twice your size at eleven years old and not even cry when they broke your bones. The idea of you begging me to put down my wand so that Tim wouldn’t hurt you—that was one of your few real miscalculations. Alongside all the murder and zealotry, of course.”

            I move Scorpius’ hand again. “Now you’re on your own, because I killed Tim. That puts you in a difficult position, of course. I don’t know if there’s a spell to reverse whatever you’re under, but if there was, you’d have to find someone to do it. This operation was very small. Just the two or three of you. And Tim’s gone, because I spared you. So here we are.”

            Hugo finally speaks. His voice is steady. He doesn’t try to insult my intelligence by blubbering or stammering. “That’s all an interesting story. But there’s no way to prove it.”

            “No. You’ve had all the time you need to destroy any evidence. I don’t imagine there will ever be a way to prove it.”

            “So why did you want me to come? If you think I did what you say I did?”

            “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever look at your face again. You’re a murderer, and a hypocrite, and you’re as guilty of putting Scorpius in this bed as Tim was. I held out for as long as I could.”

            “But?”

            “But we’ve reached the point where we need to admit we can’t fix this. Scorpius’ father is on a quest in bloody Nepal right now, searching for any small scraps of hope from a hermit in the Himalayas. We don’t have a lot of options left. So we come to why I let you live.” I try to relax my jaw. It’s beginning to ache from how tense it’s been. I make myself look at Hugo. “I killed Tim and not you because you’re smarter than he was. You can be reasoned with. I’ve let you live, because if you tell me how to reverse what happened to Scorpius, I swear I will never tell a living soul what I know. Not my father, not my family, not even Scorpius himself. I will keep this a secret. I will make small talk with you at Christmas, I’ll ask how you are when my mother mentions your name, I will pretend like this never happened, even while I hate you with all my heart. But if you give Scorpius back to me, I promise no one will ever, ever know, and we will live the rest of our lives as if this was some terrible dream.”

            His face has been blank all this time. When I stop speaking, I can practically see the gears moving inside Hugo’s head.

            Slowly, Hugo gives me an affectionate, easy smile. “This is all mad, you know. It’s just a story. Telling you how to fix this is a trap. Because if I do, that’s an admission of guilt. And none of this is true.”

            “This is the only chance I will ever give you, Hugo. If you don’t take it, you’re useless to me.”

            Hugo tilts his head, looking like the cousin I always thought I knew. Carefree, loving. “There’s a problem, Albus. Because you’re right: I do know you. And I know you would never hurt me. You killed a man, but you’re not a killer. If you think it’s a threat, that you’d kill me, I have to say, I’m unimpressed. You, pointing your wand at me, killing me in cold blood? You never could.”

            To his surprise, I think, I smile back. “You’re right,” I admit. “I couldn’t. You’re my cousin. You were my favourite, and I loved you, and that means something. So no. I don’t think I could hurt you.” Hugo smiles a little wider. “But Draco Malfoy could.”

            There’s a flicker in his eyes.

            “What do you think will happen when he figures it out? When he puts two and two together and the grief is so unbearable at not being able to fix things that he starts looking for someone to blame instead? For right now, he’s distracted by making Scorpius better. If that stops, and he doesn’t get Scorpius back—I don’t think _I’d_ want to be in his way. The richest man in England, insane with grief—versus a man with no magic and few allies, who’s always thought himself a little more clever than he actually is. Do you like those odds?”

            Hugo looks down.

            Then he takes a deep breath, smiling at me, and gets to his feet. He walks around back of his chair, resting a hand on it. “It wouldn’t matter if I told you,” Hugo says. “You can never let things go.”

            I turn my eyes back to Scorpius. “Goodbye Hugo. I don’t imagine I’ll ever see you again.” I hear him walking away. Before he opens the door, I tell him, “Consider this your head start.”

            There’s a pause. Then the door opens, and he’s gone.

 

Mr. Malfoy comes back on the fifty fourth day. He has a glowing green potion. I watch from the end of the bed as he carefully tips it into Scorpius’ mouth.

            We wait, and wait, and five minutes later there’s a glow from under the sheets as Scorpius just pisses it out.

            Mr. Malfoy sits down on the floor, in his big fur coat, and sobs. He puts his head in his hands and weeps as I stand here.

            Then I go get my wand to clean Scorpius up.

 

On the sixtieth day, Healer Morrow asks to speak with Mr. Malfoy in private again. They’re gone for an hour. This time feels different. I try reading to Scorpius, but I keep looking back over my shoulder. Finally, I stop all together. I sit silently in my chair, chewing on my lip. Waiting.

            Mr. Malfoy returns eventually. He pauses outside the door. He stands there a moment, gazing in through the glass at the bed. As the weeks turn into months, I see Scorpius more and more in his face.

            He slips inside, and goes to sit on the end of the bed. He holds his hands in his lap, looking at Scorpius’ legs beneath the sheets.

            “What is it?” I ask.

            Blowing out a short breath, Mr. Malfoy says, “They’re going to cease care.”

            “ _What_?”

            “It’s been two months, and…that’s as long as they’re willing to give us. The ultimatum is that we put him in the Janus Thickey or we leave the hospital. If we don’t…there are aurors standing by to move him regardless.”

            I stare at him, horrified. “They’ve hardly even tried. How often do they even come in here, and now they’re—they’re saying they did everything they could?!”

            Mr. Malfoy mulls it over, then straightens his shoulders. “It’s for the best. He shouldn’t be in here anyways.” I’m just wide eyed. I don’t know what to do. “This place is pointless. The only people who work here are the ones unskilled enough to overcharge for their services in the private sector. This place—this room, it is so small, and he should not have stayed here as long as he has. He should be at the Manor. At least there he’ll have more space. He’ll be in his own bed. We can take him outside so he can feel the air on his face. We really should have done this ages ago.”

            “They can’t…they can’t have tried everything. Not already.”

            Mr. Malfoy pauses, then says, “It—may be better if he’s not here. Scorpius staying here—it’s meant that we’ve had to abide by certain rules of decorum. There are still other options—that are better explored without eyes always on us.”

            His sleeves are rolled up, and I can see the tattoo of the Dark Mark. It’s just as black and solid as I imagine it was the day it was spelled there.

            I tell him, “I’m not going to hurt anyone—I’m not going to kill anyone to bring him back.”

            Mr. Malfoy smiles at me gently and murmurs, “Just don’t get in my way if I do.” He reaches down, taking my hand, and gives it a quick kiss. Then he gets to his feet, letting me go. “Nibbly!”

            The house elf appears with a crack. “Yes, my master?”

            Hands on his hips, Mr. Malfoy says, “Prepare my son’s room. We’re coming home.”

           

On the sixty first day, we move Scorpius from the hospital to the Manor. I pack everything as Mr. Malfoy talks endlessly on his phone, making arrangements for home care. I know I should be glad to get Scorpius out of this place, but—

            I cannot shake the feeling that this is the first step on the journey to giving up. I wanted to argue more, but Mr. Malfoy wasn’t hearing it. I got the impression that this might not have been nearly as sudden as I thought it was.

            When we have everything, I pull Scorpius into my lap. I wrap my arms around him. Hospital security is in the hallway, watching us, and Healer Morrow stands at the door. They’ve lowered the anti apparition spells long enough for us to leave.

            Mr. Malfoy goes to Healer Morrow, and holds out a hand. Taken aback, Healer Morrow accepts it. Shaking his hand, Mr. Malfoy says, “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

            To his credit, Healer Morrow doesn’t look pleased with himself. “I only wish we could have done more.”

            “Yes. As do we all. Well—take care. We’ll do what we can. But you know, I’ve been thinking I might get away for a few days.” Mr. Malfoy smiles. “I hear Chipping Norton is beautiful this time of year.”

            Healer Morrow blanches as Mr. Malfoy lets him go, turning away. I don’t know where Chipping Norton is, but I think Healer Morrow might live there. Or did.

            Mr. Malfoy picks up the suitcase, and slips a hand under my arm. “Okay, boys. Let’s go home.”

           

We lay Scorpius in his bed. The fire is going, and the room is so much warmer than the one at the hospital, in every way. It’s his things, and his decorations. I put the pink and red pillow under his head, smoothing down all the blankets. Fussing. I know I’m fussing.

            “Better,” Mr. Malfoy says, seated at the end of the bed. I look at him, searching for any sign that he really believes that.

            I can’t tell anymore.

            We try to have dinner downstairs while Nibbly watches Scorpius. After two minutes of excruciating tension, I say, “I can’t.” So we pick up our plates and go upstairs to sit with him while we eat.

            I go about the routine of getting Scorpius ready for the night. I’m unbuttoning his shirt when Nibbly tries reaching past to assist.

            “ _No_.” I don’t mean to snap at her. I know she’s trying to help, I really do know that. I need her to understand. It takes me a moment, but I tell her, “This is _my_ job.” I can hear the desperation in my own voice. How much I need her to know how important this is to me.

            I expect her to argue—Nibbly can’t stand me, she certainly doesn’t respect me—but she doesn’t. She stands there with a quivering lower lip, then nods. She climbs onto the end of the bed and sits there, hands clutched in her lap. As I take off his clothes, I lay them beside her, and she folds them, one by one.

            At the end of the day, Mr. Malfoy stands awkwardly beside the bed. I sit on the bed, watching Scorpius, uncertain. Our routine, inviolable for sixty one days, has been altered.

            “I suppose…I should sleep in my room.”

            “I’ll be here with him.” I offer, “We can take turns, if you want?”

            “No. No, your place is beside him. I’ll…be down the hall. In my room.” Mr. Malfoy stands there a few seconds longer before unsticking himself. He kisses Scorpius on the forehead, taking longer than usual to pet his hair. Then he turns to me, putting an arm around my shoulder. I wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face against him. “Goodnight, my boys,” Mr. Malfoy says, choked.

            “Goodnight.”

            When he’s gone, I lay down at Scorpius’ side. My living statue. The place where Scorpius is supposed to be, but isn’t. I gaze at him, unmoored.

 

I whisper in his ear, “I can’t sleep. The bed feels…not right. I hated that hospital bed so much. It was so uncomfortable, and you had to be on it for so long, and I’m sorry about that. Except I got used to it. I don’t know how to sleep on this mattress. I’m sure this is a really expensive mattress, and it’s probably filled with—I don’t know, thunderbird feathers and goat fur or—something. I don’t know. I can’t sleep, and I just keep thinking, and I’m so scared. We’re getting to the point where…if you don’t wake up, I think your dad is going to resort to some really Dark magic, and I don’t know if I can go along with that or not. I’m scared because part of me thinks I could. I know you wouldn’t want that. If you could see us, if you could tell us what to do, you’d never want us to do that. It’s just…you’re our whole life. I can’t remember the last time I thought about myself. I used to think about myself all the time. I’ve always been shitty and self absorbed, I know that, and right now I don’t know whether to hate that about myself or miss it. I’m so scared, Scorpius. I’m scared that you’re never going to wake up. I have this horrible pit in my stomach that gets worse every day. I carry it everywhere. I don’t think…I don’t think you’re going to wake up. No matter what we do. No matter what ugly, terrible magic we try to bring you back to us…I don’t think it will work. I think there’s only one way to do it, and I killed Tim, so he can’t say anything, and Hugo…I don’t even know what to say about Hugo. I’m so sorry he did this to you, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I didn’t stop this happening to you. I just need you to know…it doesn’t matter if you don’t wake up. I want you to wake up, I want it so desperately that I would eat my own heart to make it happen. But if you don’t wake up, it doesn’t mean I’ll leave. I’m in this with you forever. For always. I’m never leaving you. If you are forty five years old and still in this bed, then I will be forty five years old and in this bed with you. You’re my everything. That won’t ever change. I don’t know if you can hear me. If you can, I imagine you must be scared too. You don’t need to be scared. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave.”

 

“Albus!”

            “What?”

            “Where is the comb?!”

            I look up from my book, perplexed. “What?”

            Mr. Malfoy emerges from the toilet, pink cheeked and clearly upset. “The comb, the ivory comb, the one with the peacock engraved into it. He always has his comb, and it wasn’t there this morning, and I thought I would just find it later, but I’ve looked everywhere and it’s not there.”

            “Has Nibbly—”

            “I’ve had Nibbly turn this whole house inside out from attic to crypt and it’s not here.” Mr. Malfoy is breathing heavily. “You packed it, right?”

            “Yeah, of course I did.”

            “You obviously didn’t, because it _isn’t here_!” I raise my brows. Mr. Malfoy stops. He presses his hands to his face, then drops them. “I—I know I shouldn’t be angry. It’s just a comb. It’s just a thing, and I shouldn’t be angry. But it was his mother’s, and he should have it—”

            “Maybe I missed it.” I close my book. “Maybe I left it at the hospital.” Mr. Malfoy looks so lost—so forlorn. I don’t think it’s silly. I think we both put importance on small things because right now the small things are the only ones we can control. I get to my feet. “There’s a lost and found at St. Mungo’s. I’ll start there.”

            “No—no, I’m being preposterous. There’s no rush, it’s almost dinner—”

            I’m already putting down my book, leaning down to kiss Scorpius’ cheek. “Save a plate for me. I won’t be long. Or I might. I’ll find it. No matter what.”

            Mr. Malfoy sighs. “You are—too good to a melodramatic old man.”

            “Well, you’re too good to a melodramatic young man, so—we’re even.” I sigh, giving him a little smile. “Wish me luck.”

            “Luck.”

            I hold out a hand. “ _Accio_ coat!” My jacket flies into my hand. The second I catch it, I apparate.

 

It takes me awhile to get to the hospital. The anti apparition spells certainly haven’t gotten much better.

            I hate it. The whole trip. It’s the longest I’ve been outside and away from Scorpius in two months. I just want to get home to him. There’s this tightness in my chest, and my hands are sweating, and—

            I just have to do this.

            I go through the front door, telling the witch at reception that I have to get to the fourth floor. She doesn’t give me any grief, just lets me through. I take the lift up to the fourth floor, counting my breaths in and out to keep myself calm.

            When I get off, I take my first left. I keep my eyes down for as long as it takes me to reach Lost and Found.

            It’s actually a relatively easy process. I mean, I say that because I’m used to the bureaucracy of St. Mungo. I have to sign a written declaration and sign in triplicate before they’ll even admit someone turned in a comb. After that, it’s just sheer numb endurance that gets me over each hurdle. I’ve had worse in the last few months than paperwork.

            Once the comb is in my hands, I slump with relief. I tell the clerk, “Thank you,” with such conviction that it seems to startle him. I leave the office, looking at the comb in my hands. Trying to picture how it would have looked in Astoria Malfoy’s hair.

            When I look up, it’s straight at the sign that reads Ward 49: The Janus Thickey Ward.

            It takes me a moment, but I find myself walking towards it.

            At the door, I tap gently. A younger healer looks up with a smile. He comes to the door, unlocking it, and pokes his head through.

            “Are Rebecca and Richie still here?”

            He steps back, letting me in. “Of course. Go ahead, I’m sure they’ll be happy for the visitor.”

            I walk onto the ward hesitantly. This is where they wanted to put Scorpius. This is where Scorpius would have spent the rest of his life, if his father hadn’t the money to bring him home.

            I walk down the aisle, until I reach Richie’s bed. Rebecca sits in the exact same spot she was the last time I saw her. In her chair, by Richie’s head. Exactly where I sit when I’m with Scorpius.

            She looks up, and I see—I see a mirror. I look at her, and I see myself.

            Rebecca gazes at me a moment, and we understand one another so completely that it’s heartbreaking. She pushes herself to her feet, coming around the bed to meet me.

            We step into one another’s arms. I close my eyes, letting out a breath. She squeezes me around the middle, pressing her face against my shoulder.  

            “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I am so sorry for everything that has happened to you.”

            “I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you,” Rebecca whispers. “I am so sorry.”

 

“I wasn’t sure if I would see you up here again.”

            I shake my head. “I didn’t think I’d come. To be honest with you—I can’t be away from Scorpius for long or I—I feel like I’m dying.”

            “The guilt.”

            “The _guilt_ ,” I agree. “Why should I just be able to get around, go where I want, when he can’t even open his eyes?”

            “It’s awful.”

            “It is.”

            “I heard he’d been moved home.”

            “Yeah. They gave us the ultimatum. Less time than they gave your brother, actually. Move him here, or get the fuck out. So we got the fuck out.”

            “That’s good. It’s really good that you could take him home.”

            “What about you?”

            Rebecca smiles weakly. “Oh—my humble abode isn’t really…set up for Richie. The bank’s moving in on the place. This is kind of the only option.”

            “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

            “No. God, please don’t worry about me. I put us in this terrible situation. I made the stupidest choices, and now for a second time—I’ve really, really hurt you. I don’t deserve your sympathy.”

            “Well, fuck off. Because you have it anyways.”

            Her smile is a little stronger.

            “My boyfriend _is_ fabulously wealthy. I could pull some strings.”

            “You don’t have to.”

            “I want to.”

            Rebecca admits, “It wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen.” I nod. I’ll talk to Mr. Malfoy when I get home. “Thank you.”

            “We haven’t beat the bank into submission yet.”

            “No, not that. What you did.” I don’t understand. Rebecca says, “The man that did this to Richie. You stopped him. Thank you.”

            “I don’t know if you should thank me. He might have been the only person on the planet who knew how to reverse this.”

            Rebecca scoffs. “Even if he could—do you think a man who’d do this to a _child_ would ever tell you what you needed to know?” She shakes her head. “No. The only thing to do was make sure he could never do that to anyone ever again. And you even saved your dad and your cousin in the process. That’s pretty spectacular, Albus.”

            “I didn’t save Scorpius.”

            “You can’t give up.”

            “I’m not.”

            “This isn’t permanent. I promise.”

            “You’ve been doing this nine months. How do you—how do you bear it?”

            Rebecca thinks about it, then raises her shoulders. “There’s no secret. There just isn’t a choice. What’s the alternative? Let him die? I can’t let my brother die. I refuse. I’ll be here with him, every second, so that when he wakes up, I’m the first thing he sees. So he knows, I loved him, and I waited. So he knows I never gave up. That’s how we’ll win. Refuse to give up, refuse to let go.” Rebecca looks at Richie tenderly. “I’ll _never_ let go. I can’t. I just can’t.” She looks back at me. A crease forms between her brows. “Albus? Are you all right?”

            I’m staring at her.

            The tightness in my chest has become a vise.

            Rebecca puts a hand on my shoulder, concerned. “Albus?”

            From a distance, I hear myself say, “I’m going to be sick.”

            I put my head down between my knees. I stare at the linoleum floor, mouth hanging open, trying not to spill up my insides.

            I know what I have to do.

 

I’m banging on the door even though it’s dark. I don’t know what time it is, but the lights are on inside, so I know they’re awake. It can’t be that late, it’s not late enough to sleep. Just come to the door. Come to the door, come to the door, come to the door.

            There’s movement behind the windows. I step back, swallowing repeatedly, my whole body jittering.

            Mum’s face appears from behind the curtain. She immediately unlocks the door. “Albus—what’s—”

            “Where’s Dad?”

            “What—”

            “Where’s Dad, I need Dad, I need to see him now, I need Dad—”

            “He’s—”

            “I need him, where is he—”

            Mum throws out an arm, pointing around the side of the house. “He’s in the barn—”

            I take off. I hear her call my name, but I’m running.

            I have to know. I can’t do it if I don’t know. If I know, if I know he’ll be safe, then I can do it, but I can’t do it if I don’t know.

            The lights are on in the barn. We’ve never had animals in there, it just came with the place, and I don’t know why Dad is in there, but it doesn’t matter. Mum is yelling, “Harry!”

            I’m halfway there when the door to the barn opens, and Dad steps out. He’s in a bathrobe, hair pulled back in a ponytail. He takes one look and starts running towards me. “Albus?”

            I skid to a stop. “I need—I need—”

            Dad stops in front of me, eyes wide. “What? What do you need?”

            I jab a finger towards the earth. “I need to _ask_ you something, and you _have_ to tell me the truth. I need to know, and you need to tell me and I will know if you’re lying, if you lie to me I will know and I will never, ever forgive you, it will never, ever be made right. I have to ask you something and you’re not going to lie to me. Promise me, promise you won’t lie to me.”

            Dad nods. “I promise.”

            “You told us—you said you died in the Battle of Hogwarts. You said you really died. Not like just a piece of you, the piece of you that was him, but you said you really died. Was that true?”

            “Yes.”

            “You said that when you died you went somewhere else. That there was something after this, and that you went to the place before that, and you made the choice to come back, but there was something else to go on to. And you always gave us this shit about, oh, maybe it was all just a dream, but I have to know, do you really believe that? Was it a dream, or was it real? You have to tell me, you have to _swear_ to me what it is you really think. Was it a dream, or is there really something that comes after all this?”

            Dad gazes at me, then says, “It wasn’t a dream. I could have gone on. I didn’t. I came back. And one day, when I die, I’ll go there for good. I believe that with all my heart.”

            I gasp in a breath. My jaw is working. I don’t know if I’m trying to speak or trying to breathe.

            Stepping closer, Dad asks, “Albus—what’s this all about?”

            “I know how to save Scorpius.”

            “How?”

            “I have to let him die.” The words hit me with the force of a train. Saying it makes it real. It’s true. I know what I have to do. What I’m going to do. I touch my chest, mouth opening and closing. My legs—I don’t know how my legs work. “Dad.”

            He’s crossing the space between us. He crushes me in his arms.

            I’m trying to force air inside me. I don’t know how that works. “Dad?”

            “I’ve got you,” Dad says. “I’ve got you.”

            I try to remember how to breathe, and Dad keeps me from falling.

 

We sit on the back step of the barn. I’m better, though that’s a strictly relative term. I can string a sentence together. I don’t think I can walk.

            Mum is sitting on the steps behind the house, watching us. I don’t know if she and Dad had a silent conversation about it, but she’s there and we’re here and I’m kind of relieved about that.

            “Are you sure?” Dad murmurs.

            I nod slowly. “I’m too sure. I’m so sure I want to die.”

            “Please don’t…no. Sorry, you say whatever you need to.”

            “I’m not going to kill myself, Dad. If I could—if I could die and know that it would bring him back, it would be too easy. That’s not how this spell works. It’s insidious. So insidious. And so beautifully cruel. It’s made to hurt the people who love him most. And that’s what it’s going to do.”

            “How did you figure that out?”

            “I was with Richie Vega’s sister. You know, the boy before Scorpius—”

            “I know who he is.”

            “I was with her, and she was talking, and it suddenly hit me. We were doing everything wrong. We both kept saying, we’ll never let go, we’ll never let go. We’ll never give up, we’ll work on this problem forever, we’ll fix it. But the only way to stop it is to do the one thing that would hurt us most. Let go.”

            “That can’t be the only thing that made you think of it.”

            “There was…something that someone else said…that just reminded me.”

            Dad asks quietly, “Was it Hugo?” I glance at him, and Dad smiles sadly. “Your father—though not the smartest man to ever live—is in fact the Minister for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” I look up. Of course. “I have kept a quiet eye on the hospital. So I know that last week, you finally let him into St. Mungo’s. And an hour later, he was on a plane to Johannesburg. I already had my suspicions, but…that was kind of the nail in the coffin.”

            “Does…anyone else know?”

            “There are very few of us at work who have discussed it, and been very discreet about making inquiries. But that’s the sum of it.” Looking across the yard, Dad says, “Please don’t tell your mum. I don’t know that we would ever be able to prove it. He was clever, your cousin, and I don’t want to…do that to her, if I don’t have to. But if the day comes, it needs to be my responsibility to tell her, not yours. Let alone your aunt and uncle—” Dad lets out a sigh. He props his elbow on his kneecap, putting his hand to his head. “He might have destroyed this family, among other things.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Merlin’s beard, for what?”

            “That I didn’t—didn’t see it, that I didn’t know—”

            “Hey,” Dad barks. “None of that. I know you’re going to feel guilty no matter what I tell you, but—he did this to all of us, Albus. Not just you. He fooled all of us. So what was it he said to you?”

            “He said, ‘It wouldn’t matter if I told you. You can never let things go.’ I misinterpreted. I thought he was saying we were in a stalemate. That he couldn’t tell me, because the second I knew I’d…get rid of him or something. Do to him what I did to Tim. But he was actually telling me what I needed to do. I don’t know if he thought he was being clever or a prick or even actually trying to help. Except it was right there. He was telling me it wouldn’t matter if he told me exactly what I needed to do, because he knew I’d never be able to let Scorpius go. He thought I couldn’t do it.”

            “Could you?”

            I look up at the stars. I feel like there is a tunnel through my body, and the surface of it is all raw, excoriated edges. “He is…the only thing in the world I love more than myself. The thought of me without him is…excruciating. I can’t even picture it. He makes…makes me _whole_.” There’s this weird pulsing in my throat. “But I would rather…rather go the rest of my life missing a part of myself then spend the rest of our lives keeping him here just to feel like I didn’t fail.” I look at Dad and whisper, “He’s not there. He’s a shell. I’ve tried—legilimency, and it’s like hitting a brick wall. He’s either already gone or he is trapped somewhere that no wishing or trying will reach. What good is keeping him here if he is in a prison that he can’t escape? What if I’m torturing him just because I can’t do what’s best for him?”

            I scrunch up my face. I have this terrible feeling in my throat. As I push my hair back from my face, Dad squeezes the back of my neck.

            He pulls his hand back, and says reluctantly, “I know you think this is the only way…but I have to ask. Have you considered the Elder Wand?”

            I let out a laugh. “Here,” I say, pulling it from my pocket and tossing it to Dad. “Have it. It’s useless.”

            Dad holds it, shocked. “You…”

            “Took it, yeah. The first night he was in the hospital, I left him there with his dad, went up to Hogwarts, and opened the tomb. I took it right out of Dumbledore’s hands. He looked better than I expected, but it still wasn’t one of the better things I’ve ever done. I took it back to St. Mungo’s and we tried every single spell we could think of. It was pointless.”

            “Is it maybe…still under…”

            “No, it’s under my control. I hold it and…it’s like my whole arm hums. Like the wand is a part of my body. I’m the master of the Elder Wand. And not even the Elder Wand can save Scorpius.” I shrug. “Do you have any other ideas? Because I’m out. I’m not being facetious. Please tell me. I don’t want to do this. Tell me if you have any ideas.”

            Dad studies the wand. “I don’t,” he admits.

            “Well fuck.”

            After a moment, Dad reaches over, slipping the wand back into my pocket. “You hang onto that. You deserve that.”

            “I don’t know whether to be pleased or insulted.”

            “You disarmed me. I think maybe you were always meant to have it.”

            I look at him, then say, “No you don’t.”

            Dad takes a breath. “Okay. No I don’t. You did, however, disarm me, and that means it’s yours. For better or worse. You’re the master of the Elder Wand.”

            I look back over my shoulder. The inside of the barn looks a lot different than the last time I was here. It’s basically a studio flat. I see a small kitchen, and a bed. The TV is still on, playing football.

            “Why are you sleeping in the barn?”

            Dad pauses, then says, “The…the night I hurt you, I came back here, and told your mum, and we agreed we should live apart for awhile.”

            “What?”

            “I actually—I moved into a hotel in the city. After that fiasco on Harry Potter Day, though…Mum wanted me to come home. I just wasn’t really ready for that. So I live in the barn. And we are going to counselling together. And I am going to counselling on my own. So those are things that are happening.”

            A few seconds pass. I say, “Wow.”

            “Don’t get too excited. Apparently this kind of thing takes years. Especially if you’ve left it this long.” Dad shifts, uncomfortable. “Albus—now isn’t the right time, so I’m not going to get into it with you. Someday though, when— _if_ —you are ready, I owe you an apology. We’re on your timetable. Whenever you decide you’re ready.”

            In a small voice, I say, “I’m ready.”

            Dad looks surprised. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and try to think of what to say.

            He finally settles on, “I’m sorry.” Dad lets out a bitter laugh, looking away from me and scratching his head. “How utterly fucking inadequate. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d let me get this far, so I didn’t really plan anything out. I have so much to say to you, and I know it can’t all happen in one conversation. If you’ll let me, I hope it’s something we can work on, but for right now, all I can say is that I’m sorry.”

            “We were…okay when I was a kid. Weren’t we?”

            “More or less. I didn’t…I didn’t really understand you, even then. You were a nervous child. Not like your brother. James was easy, because James I understood. Then you came along and I thought…you know, I thought I had it all figured. And you were young enough that you thought I was really something. You didn’t notice that I wasn’t always…comfortable around you, that I didn’t always say the right thing. Then you got to an age where you noticed, and things got really bad. Because I let them. Because I’m always so sure I’m right, that everything’s white and black. Because a long time ago, I was _really_ right about something, so it must mean I’m right about everything else.”

            Dad stops fidgeting, hanging his arms over his knees. “People—men especially—are always under a long shadow when it comes to their fathers. I didn’t grow up with a father, so it was really important to me to have children. To fill in all the gaps he missed. Every time something would come up with you kids, I would think to myself, what would my dad do? I tried in so many ways to bring my parents into the future they missed. Refusing to let loose of something I never actually had. It was so foolish in so many ways. Relying on how I thought a man I never knew would act. Trying to do what I thought he would instead of trying to make my own way. And every time it didn’t work—and it almost never worked with you—I’d feel like it was…not just a slight to me, but to my father. Instead of…realizing you kids were your own people. Just trying to make your own way instead of carrying this burden I put on you from the moment you were born. The truth of it is, Albus…I don’t know if my dad would have been a good father.”

            I look at him, and Dad shakes his head. “People always told me how brave he was, what a good fighter he was. But he was also a bully. He trusted the wrong people. Kept secrets from the people he should have trusted. I have…questions. But what kind of son questions the motives of the man who died trying to protect him? So I just blundered on in what I thought was the James Potter way, and it’s a quarter century later and I don’t even know my own kids.”

            I don’t know what to say to that.

            “I got so angry at you. Your brother and sister, I figured they were okay, but you, I just never understood you. Your brother and sister, they at least seemed to like me, and they were getting along okay. Of course, I was wrong about that, but that’s a discussion for another day. We’re just talking about me and you right now. I got so angry with you, so many times, Albus. You know where all my buttons are, and you just hit them in that Slytherin way, and I feel like I’m fifteen years old again with no idea of how to keep my mouth shut or control my temper.”

            “Was it—just because I was Slytherin?”

            “No. But—and you can think this is ignorant—that did have a large part of it. You have to remember, Al, that when I was younger than you—these were the people we were fighting. Their parents were the parents killing our friends. I know you’re going to tell me it was thirty years ago, that things are different, but…words and feelings are often very different things. When I found out that’s where you’d gone, I had this terrible feeling. That all my secret doubts about you—they’d been true. Christ, that is a shameful, shameful thing to say, and I’m so sorry. And when I found out you were friends were Scorpius, it was just—confirmation. I have known the Malfoys a lot longer than you have, and the things I’ve seen them do…I didn’t have any real reason to think he’d be different. The longer you were friends with him, the worse things between us got, and I blamed him. Blamed you. Didn’t just take into account that you were a teenager, that we’re all moody bastards who don’t like our parents at that age.”

            “You said it would be better. After the Time Turner. I believed you.”

            “I believed it too. But I expected the wrong thing from you. I thought that the experience would make you change. That you—would be more like the son I had expected. More like James. That didn’t happen, and I got frustrated and we just fell into this pattern… Of course you didn’t need to change, you were just becoming your own man. I don’t know…I don’t know why I felt like it was such a personal slight. I wish I could explain it to you, but sometimes the things I feel…aren’t exactly rational. The older you got, the angrier I was. For reasons a father shouldn’t be angry. I got angry because you seemed content. Your brother and sister, they always seemed to need something. Your brother, he needs my validation so badly, and your sister…we’ve been to the wars with your sister. I’d expected them to be the ones to succeed, but it was you. You were happy with your life, and you did it without us. A lot of the time, you acted like we were beneath you, and that pissed me off something fearsome. I want to make it clear, I’m not asking to be forgiven for any of this. I know that so much of what I’m saying is unreasonable and awful. I just…feel like it’s time some things should be said.”

            “All right.”

            “I don’t know how to be your father, Albus. I don’t think I ever did. So I tried all the wrong ways, and when it didn’t work, I blamed you for it. Blamed you instead of myself. I did everything wrong. Ignored you instead of talking to you, yelled when I should have listened. Let my temper get unforgivably out of control. If you’d asked me, thirty years ago, if I thought I’d be the kind of man who hit his wife or kids, I’d have said I’d rather die. But then you’re fifty years old, still hating yourself for a thing you did fifteen years ago, trying to comfort yourself with the knowledge that you know you’d never do it again, and then you do it to your son, just because he tells you something you already know. And then…on top of that…on top of all the shitty things I’ve done, I have to live in the world knowing I’m a worse father than Draco Malfoy.”

            Dad lets out a groan. “Draco _Malfoy_. Keep in mind, this is a man whose first sexual experience probably happened while he fantasized about pulling the legs off spiders.” Dad puts his hands to his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

            “We should be a little kinder to Mr. Malfoy. After all, I’m about to kill his son.”

            The words taste like ashes. Dad drops his hands and glances at me.

            “I am so sorry for everything I said about him. Everything. It was uncalled for every time, and I am sorry.”

            I chew on my lip. Then I nod slightly.

            “Do you want to know why I really rejected him from the aurors?” Dad smiles at me regretfully. “It’s not because he wasn’t brave enough. The problem was—he was too brave. He was so eager to prove himself, to try and erase everyone’s memory of his name. I thought he would have taken unnecessary risks just to try and set things right. I thought he’d be killed the first year. And I thought about what that would do to you, despite all our differences, and I just couldn’t do it. That’s why I didn’t let him become an auror.”

            I wait a second, then say, “ _And_ because he’s a Malfoy.”

            “Yeah,” Dad admits, and I let out a single laugh. “Sorry.”

            “No, I…appreciate the honesty.”

            Dad studies me. “What are you going to do?”

            I sigh. “Go back to the Manor. Talk with Mr. Malfoy.”

            “He could wake up, Albus. This could be the way to break the spell.”

            “Yeah. Maybe. Because Tim seems like he was such a kind, compassionate guy.”

            “I love you,” Dad says suddenly. “Even if I’ve never understood you, even if we are very, very different people—even if we are very much the same—I love you very much.”

            Scuffing my foot against the ground, I say, “I know, Dad.” I look across the yard at Mum. “I hope you guys work this out.”

            “Do you?”

            “Yeah. The world is a really unfair, awful place. And even though we do some really fucked up things to each other, sometimes people are just meant to be together. And that makes the awful a little more bearable.”  

            I wipe under my nose, then push myself to my feet. “We’ll be here,” Dad says. “If you need us.”

            “Yeah.” I take a few steps, then turn back to him. “Do you want to know I was put in Slytherin?”

            After a few seconds, Dad says, “I would.”

            “I’d been so scared going to Hogwarts. So scared I’d be in Slytherin. Then I got on that train with Scorpius, and he made me forget that I was scared. He got me, immediately, in a way no one else ever had. And by the time we reached the castle, I’d completely forgotten that I didn’t want to be in Slytherin. I felt this…totally different fear, and the same words started going around and around in my head like a loop. They were still the only thing I could think of when the hat went on my head. All I could think was: I don’t want to be alone. Please don’t let me be alone. So the hat gave me Scorpius.” My voice catches. “And ever since that day, I haven’t been alone.”

            The pity on Dad’s face is too much to bear. I inhale, and apparate away.

 

The silence drags on so long that I become extra conscious of the little noises. The clock. The ticking of the clock is relentless. The crackle of the fireplace does nothing to camouflage it. I’m sitting in a wing backed chair, waiting, as Mr. Malfoy stands in front of the fireplace, saying nothing.

            Finally, he turns around. The firelight makes even deeper hollows of his cheeks.

            “You _cannot_ be serious.”

            “You know me. Do you think I would say this to you if it wasn’t true?”

            Incredulous, Mr. Malfoy says, “There are still other options—”

            “They won’t work. We both know—no matter what we do, it’s not going to work. It doesn’t matter how much we want it, or how much money you spend. This spell…it’s not going anywhere unless we do what it wants.”

            “No,” Mr. Malfoy says, shaking his head. “No, there’s still hope—”

            “How? Some terrible thing hidden away in the Malfoy family library, some price we have to pay that would revolt him if he knew? Magic like that has a price. On the off chance that it did work, what terrible thing would happen in return?”

            “I can shoulder that burden—”

            “What if it’s not yours to shoulder? What if it’s his? If you want to tell me that you think I’m wrong, and that you genuinely, _genuinely_ believe that you have a better idea, an idea you think will work, I am ready to hear it. I am desperate to hear it. Please, make me believe I’m wrong. Make me believe there’s still hope.”

            Mr. Malfoy looks away. He runs his hands over his hair, murmuring, “We can’t give up.”

            “And that’s what will damn him. Our refusal…to let go. He was gone—he was gone the second that curse hit him, only his body is still here, and I don’t know if he can move on like this.”

            “He is _not_ gone! He is still in there!”

            “You must have tried legilimency. I did. I did every day, looking for some small spark, some little piece. I haven’t found anything. Have you?”

            Mr. Malfoy holds onto the back of his neck. He turns away from me.

            “You’re asking…you’re asking something impossible of me.”

            “I’m asking something impossible of myself.”

            “I cannot do this. His mother—”

            “His mother wouldn’t want _this_.” Hushed, I say, “What if we are keeping him from her?”

            Mr. Malfoy turns back to me, eyes wide.

            I shake my head at him. “We both know that we are useless against this thing. If we keep on doing things the way they are, he’s going to be in that bed for the next fifty years, and that’s not what Scorpius would want. It _is_ what I want. If the choice is between keeping him here, lifeless, or letting him go and spending the rest of my life alone, everything I am is screaming to just hold onto what we have, regardless of how little and awful and heartbreaking it is. But it doesn’t matter what I want. What matters is what’s _best_ for him. Are we going to keep him in this limbo because we’re selfish? Is this how we honour him? Is this how we love him best?”

            “What if you’re wrong?”

            “If I’m wrong, nothing happens. He stays like this, and we carry on. We do this for as long as it takes. We do this forever, the three of us. If I’m right…”

            Helpless, Mr. Malfoy says, “You’re asking me to kill my son.”

            “I’m asking you to help kill _my_ Astoria.” Mr. Malfoy blinks, and I need to swallow, hard. “You had your wife for years. I had Scorpius for two months. He will be the only person I ever love. And I love him so much that I can do this. I can…sacrifice all my hopes, all my happiness, because I love him. Because I need him to be free.”

            Mr. Malfoy reaches down a hand, fumbling for a chair. He sits, heavily, staring into nothing.

            I wait a moment, then ask, “What are you thinking?”

            He closes his eyes briefly. “We’re supposed to do what’s best for other people. That’s what we tell ourselves. But it’s lies, really. It’s not about what’s best for other people, but what we can live with. And I don’t know if I could live with this.”

            “You’re his father. He needs you to protect who he is, not chain what he was.”

            I couldn’t say the precise moment it happens. I’m watching him, and he’s not saying anything. Only there’s something in his face. I see the change from outright denial to fear to anger. Mr. Malfoy starts shaking his head.

            “I’m right,” I murmur. “About the spell. You know I’m right.”

            He shoves himself back to his feet. He returns to the fireplace, gazing down into it.

            “If we do this,” Mr. Malfoy says, “then Hugo’s usefulness has come to an end.” I say nothing, startled. Mr. Malfoy glances at me, and hisses disdainfully. “Don’t be naïve, Albus. That hospital room was bugged less than five minutes after Scorpius was in it. Not that I didn’t already suspect the arrogant little shit.” Mr. Malfoy turns around, gathering himself up. “You need to understand. If we do this, then Hugo is mine. It isn’t a discussion. If you think the only way to free my son is to let him die, then that’s my price. He is _forfeit_.”

            I stare at him, heart beating in my throat.

            My aunt and uncle. They will never recover.

            It takes me a moment, but I push out, “I don’t want to be a part of it. And I don’t want to know about it. Other than that…you do whatever you need to so you can live with this.”

            It is a terrible pact. It’s a life for a life. Retribution doesn’t do much for the world. Scorpius, however, is my only priority, and Hugo has already resigned from this family. I can deal with the consequences over the next few decades.

            Mr. Malfoy nods, then lets out a harsh laugh. “What do you want me to do? Stab him through the heart?”

            “I don’t think that would work. I think we have to…mean it. I think we have to be ready. And when we are, it’ll happen.”

            “You want me to be _okay_ with my son’s death.”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know, only I have this feeling…this horrible feeling, and I think that’s what we have to do.”

            “How in the hell are we supposed to do that?”

            “I don’t know. Let’s go figure it out.”

            Mr. Malfoy gapes at me. “Now?” He steps back, horrified. “I can’t—not right now—”

            “Would it be any easier another day?” I ask, voice cracking. I have to swallow again.

            Mr. Malfoy stands there, aghast.

            He pulls himself together. “He came into this world at 8:39 in the morning. We can wait until then. If we’re going to murder my son, we will not do it in the dark.”

            I nod, and Mr. Malfoy returns to his seat.

            We wait for dawn.

 

On the sixty third day, we go to Scorpius. The sun is up when we return to the room. I couldn’t come back here until now. I knew that if I slept next to Scorpius one more time, I’d never be able to go through with this.

            He lies there, looking beautiful in the sunlight. Unmoving, unreacting. Wherever he is, it’s a place we can’t reach.

            Mr. Malfoy goes around the bed. He stands there, gazing at Scorpius.

            Then he reaches down. He pushes the blanket back over Scorpius’ legs. From his pocket, he takes a small knife. I watch in apprehension as he takes hold of Scorpius’ calf. He tries to cut into Scorpius’ ankle.

            Before the blade can even reach skin, it snaps in half.

            I flinch. Mr. Malfoy takes out his wand, tapping the knife. “ _Reparo_.” The blade jumps back together seamlessly. Mr. Malfoy moves to Scorpius’ head. He gingerly slips a finger around a curl, then slices the knife through it. It’s as easy as cutting butter.

            I hold out my hand. He puts the curl in the palm of my hand.

            Then he swings his arm and tries to drive the knife into Scorpius’ heart.

            The blade explodes in a cloud of ash. I yelp, throwing my hands up over my eyes.

            Mr. Malfoy stares, then opens his hand. A few pieces of the knife crumble off his palm. “Oh God,” he moans, turning away.

            I use my wand to vanish the remainders, then fix the blanket. I thread my fingers through Scorpius’ hair to cover the missing curl.

            “We can’t leave him like this.” Mr. Malfoy stares at Scorpius with an open mouth. “We just can’t.”

            I nod. Part of me wishes he didn’t believe me. That he refused to let go. If one of us did…if one of us was just a little more selfish…

            “What do we do?”

            I fasten the end of the curl together, then clutch it in my hand. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

            “Do we just—say it?”

            “I don’t _know_.”

            I can’t take it. I go to sit down on a chair by the wall. I put my head down and start running my thumb over the little curl in my hand.

            It takes a moment, but Mr. Malfoy pulls a chair over to the bed. He takes my usual position, by Scorpius’ head, and we’re just quiet for awhile.

            I don’t know how to do this. Let him go? We’ve had almost no time together. He’s been unconscious as long as we dated. How do I make myself all right with letting him die? Is there any way to do that? I managed to convince Mr. Malfoy, but I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to convince myself.

            There’s an ugly squawk of a peacock from outside. Mr. Malfoy reaches out, and picks up Scorpius’ hand. He pets it a moment. The two palest men I’ve ever seen. Mr. Malfoy’s hand with its enormous ring. Scorpius’ limp hand, unable to react.

            A tear rolls down Mr. Malfoy’s cheek. Then another, and another. He tilts his head back, exhaling, and the tears begin dripping to his shirt. He looks out at the day, and closes his eyes for a moment.

            “You were the sweetest child,” Mr. Malfoy says. He shakes his head in amazement. “Just the most impossibly sweet child. I don’t mean by the standards of the Malfoys. I mean by any available metric. I’d find you curled up against the guard dogs. The peacocks would try to bite you because you wanted to hug them. You’d run up to me with those big pink cheeks and those chubby little arms open, saying, ‘Daddy, hug. Hug, Daddy.’ And I was so scared of you. I didn’t know how to behave with a child as perfect as you. If you weren’t the spitting image of me, I would have sworn you weren’t my son. I’ve never been a good person, and this has never been a good family, but then there was you, and you were so _good_. I was terrified of you. Terrified to hold you, to give you kisses, to be the kind of father a little boy like that needed.” Mr. Malfoy lets out a laugh. “It made your mother so angry. She was the most even tempered person I ever knew, but when you were an infant and I couldn’t bring myself to pick you up, she said, ‘Damn it, Draco, just hold him!’ So I’d pick you up and just look at you and try to figure out how to not ruin you.

            “I know I wasn’t what you needed. You’d never tell me so. You’d give me some rubbish about how I was the best father you could have asked for. I even think you’d believe it. But you deserved so much better than me. It should have been your mother who lived. Except she wasn’t, and it was me, left to fumble through, and try to figure out how to love a little boy who was nothing like me. For awhile there, I forgot how important it was, to still have you. All I could think of was the loss of her, and…I was lost for awhile. And on you carried, becoming your own hero. The beautiful boy who saved us all from the Dark Lord. Scorpius, I could have burst from how proud I was. Every time I think about you, and all you’ve accomplished—all you’ve been—all you could do—I am so incredibly proud of you. You deserved a better father, but you never let that stop you. You loved me, and everyone else, and I admire that. I am in awe of you, my sweet boy.

            “I wanted to believe that I could make up for all my sins…all my failures, if I just made this right. If I was stubborn enough, believed enough. I thought I could have you back. I thought to myself, I failed his mother, but I won’t fail him. Only the definition of failure has shifted, and…it would seem the true failure would be to trap you like this for always. Sleeping Beauty, but it’s not a kiss that would wake you up. It’s something else, and when you wake up, you will be in another realm.

            “And so I’m sad. I am very, very sad, Scorpius. I have led a terrible life, save for what I had with your mother and you. When my life is finished, I doubt I will go to the same place you and your mother will be. But that’s not a reason for you to worry, or for you to want to stay. It’s not your job to look after me. It’s my job to look after you, and to always do what’s best for you, regardless of what it means for me. Being your father…has been such a remarkable privilege. If you can’t be here, I will do everything I can to make this world what you would want it to be. When I die, every cent I have will have gone into something you believed in. I will leave this place better than I left it, in your memory, in your name. I will make this terrible thing worth something. So don’t worry about me. I need you to take care of yourself. I need you to go.

            “I know you’re going to worry about us no matter what I say, but you don’t have to. Albus and I will look after one another. I promise, I will be the father to him that I always wish I could have been to you. I promise you, I will take care of him. And I will take of myself, because I know you would want that too. It’s time for you to move on, my sweet boy. You have given us so, so much. Now let us give this to you. We release you. We send you on.”

            Mr. Malfoy brings Scorpius’ hand up to his cheek. He nuzzles it, then gives it a quick kiss before setting it down. “Goodbye. My perfect, sweet boy.”

            He pushes himself up and walks away.

            The sun shines on Scorpius’ face. It touches his pale skin, reflecting off. The motes of dust are visible in the stream of light.

            I get to my feet. I move slowly towards Scorpius. Recording every second of this into my memory. I will remember these moments until I die. I should at least do them justice.

            I slip onto the chair, studying his face. The line of his nose. The rise of his cheekbones, the curve of his brow. The pretty pink tinge of his cheeks. The defined cupid’s bow of his upper lip that I have kissed not nearly enough times.

            “I can’t,” I whisper. I start shaking my head. “I’m not brave enough. I’m so sorry…I’m not brave enough…”

            I let out a sob. And another.

            Then my face is in my hands and I’m weeping.

            I can’t do this. I can’t just let go. Not now. Not ever. I have loved him so long—I have loved him and _only_ him. There will never be anyone else like him. No one who will understand me—who will love me without conditions, without reservations. If I do this, I will be alone for the rest of my life.

            I’m selfish. Everyone knows it, Scorpius even said it, so how am I supposed to do this? It’s only ever been about what I want. It’s always, always been that way, and I can’t…I can’t…

            I loved him and said nothing.

            All those years. I loved him and I kept it to myself. I did that because I thought it would make him happy. I didn’t want to make him feel like he had to choose. I wanted what was best for him. I’ve done this before. I’ve made hard choices before.

            The thought makes me cry even harder.

            His will be the voice in my head. The voice I will turn to every time I don’t know what to do. Every time I struggle to be good, I’ll hear him. He has been the one thing to keep my path a decent one. Without him, I would probably be some neurotic Gryffindor, forever chasing my confused father’s affections. Scorpius gave me the courage to be myself. He let me know that I could be loved, no matter who I was.

            I force my head up. I grab onto Scorpius’ hand, and I’d worry about holding him too tight, but I know—I know he can’t feel it.

            “The first thing you did when you met me,” I whisper, “was welcome me, and offer me sweets, even though you knew I’d probably hate you on general principle. You met me with an open heart. You have met every person you ever knew the same way and I cannot comprehend it. You were too good for all of us. And imperfect. Beautifully, fantastically imperfect. I have loved your imperfections. I have adored you. I will carry that with me through every moment of my life, the way I have every moment until this one. You are the best person I have _ever_ known. I have known heroes, and warriors, and survivors, but none of them held a candle to you. You met the world with an open heart, and you made every person you touched better for it. I am a better man for loving you.”

            I kiss his fingers, tasting my tears.

            “I told you I would never let you go. And I will never stop loving you. I will spend my life waiting for the moment when I can see you again in the world beyond this one. And if I thought we could keep you in this world with us, and have you the way you were, you know I would do anything it took to do that. But that’s not an option. The options are to keep you in this hell until we all go or to let you go on before. The part of me that is the most me wants to be selfish and keep you. But that isn’t what you would do. I will never be as good a man as you, but I can’t do to you what I know you would never do to me. You would always, always do what was best for me. So that’s what I’m going to do for you.”

            I look at Scorpius and tell him, “I love you. I will _always_ love you.” A sob escapes my mouth, and I swallow down another. I force myself to be still for these final words. “I will find you in the next life. It’s time for you to leave this one. Goodbye, Scorpius. I love you, goodbye.”

            He gasps.

            I let out a groan as his back arches. Scorpius is seizing, agonizing little breaths forcing themselves inside him. He’s dying. I grasp his hand with both of mine, making myself watch. I’m crying, just as hard as before, but I can’t look away, not now.

            His body falls against the bed, limp. His chest rises with one long, last rattling inhale. I weep, remembering the first words he ever said to me. Remembering a hopeful little blonde boy holding out candies, a peace offering to a world he knew was aligned against him. I remember a seventeen year old, a newly made man, who drunkenly kissed me on my bed. I remember the way he smiled at me, the first morning we woke up together, and how he would look at me every time we’d been parted for more than a few minutes. I remember how much I love Scorpius Malfoy. I will love him forever.

            His chest deflates, that last breath leaving him.

            He stops breathing.

            I can’t breathe.

            And then Scorpius opens his eyes.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and loved this story, who left comments of praise and promises to find me and end my life if I killed Scorpius. I adore each and every one of you. If you need to find me, I can occasionally be seen at e-sebastian on Tumblr.  
> Now let's see how the story ends.

The sound of owl wings wakes me.

            I squint my eyes open. It’s barely even light outside. Why on earth should I be awake this early?

            Zamora obviously agrees. She climbs onto my head and plops down. I sigh, but it’s actually quite welcome. She’s been clingy ever since I came home. I haven’t minded. I missed her terribly.

            She turns and hisses at the flapping of wings. I dislodge her enough to look at the foot of the bed. Aedesia has perched on the bed post. Fluttering, she hoots at us.

            “Fetch,” I tell Zamora.

            She takes off like a shot, and Aedesia rockets upwards. Shrieking, she flaps her way out of the room, Zamora hot on her trail.

            I settle down, disgruntled.

            Just me in this bed. This bed that never seemed too big until I started waking up in it alone. I close my eyes, sticking my hands up under the pillow.

            I start to drift off again, kept awake only by the commotion in the house.

            Then I hear the door, and a yelped, “Let her go! Get—get that out of your mouth! Stop! So help me, I’ll use my wand—stop biting my bird, you maniac!”

            Serves him right. I pull the blankets higher, getting good and cozy.

            It takes a few minutes before I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Exasperated, Scorpius says, “You encourage her!”

            “I’m sorry, but I only take constructive criticism from people who keep their promises.”

            “Listen, I know, but—you sleep so _late_.”

            “It’s barely even 8:30.”

            “Like I said, late.”

            He’s supposed to stay in bed until I wake up. The first time I woke up and Scorpius was gone, I went into complete meltdown. Hyperventilating, screaming—it was quite the production.

            I feel Scorpius come around the bed, then his hand on my shoulder. I inhale as Scorpius bends down, kissing my cheek.

            Immediately, I gag. I push him back, asking, “Why are you _soggy_?”

            Chuckling, Scorpius turns on the bedside lamp. “That’s the sweat of my brow, lazy arse.”

            Gaping at him, I have a more important question. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

            Ever since he came back to us, it’s been hard to keep Scorpius still. If he sits too long, he starts jittering. It was beginning to irritate me. Then one day, Scorpius said, “I’m going to start running.” My response was, “From what?” But off he went, running around our neighbourhood. Coming back each time red faced and deliriously happy, smelling like a ship’s hold. I didn’t understand it, but I give him a lot of leeway.

            This, though.

            He is wearing some bizarre blue outfit that conforms completely to his body. Spandex? Lycra? Scorpius has always had an impeccable fashion sense, which is what makes this so perplexing.

            Proud of himself, Scorpius tugs at the front of his—bodysuit? Is that what it is? “Isn’t it something? It’s so clever, it wicks away moisture!”

            Looking at my damp hand, I say, “Yeah, and onto your boyfriend.”

            Scorpius waves at me with a cheerful eye roll. “You’re only jealous.”

            “Of _what_?”

            “Of my remarkable body.”

            I snort, unbidden. “Yeah, that must be it. Come here a second.” Scorpius steps forward. I reach out and squeeze his perfectly outlined cock.

            Yelping, Scorpius bats at my hand, pulling away. “Rude,” he says, blushing.

            “If I have to look at you in that monstrosity, the least you can do is let me grope you in it.”

            “I’ll thank you to respect my bodily autonomy. Hey, I want to show you something.”

            He walks away, and I groan, rolling onto my back. “Scorpius…” The amount of energy he has in the morning is insane. He wakes up and is 100% ready to attack the day. I cry out as Scorpius jumps on the bed, pulling his legs up underneath himself. “For heaven’s sake—”

            “Look.” Scorpius tilts up the drawing to show me. “The first mock ups came in. See?”

            He holds it out to me. I push myself to sit up, then take the architect’s drawing.

            A three storey building. Expansive. Classic looking, but with modernist touches. The kind of building that will age well. At the top, the words ‘Gundersen House’ are written.

            “We’ll break ground in April,” Scorpius says, leaning against my arm. “It will fit three families. Rent to buy, if they like. We’ll go ahead with Gundersen House first, just because I’m having an easier time of it in Wiltshire than London. But I expect we’ll start Golightly House in London sometime next summer. They’re still working on the plans, but it’s coming along nicely. These are just the start, of course. The start of everything. What do you think?”

            I have to work not to smile.

            “Do you have a pen?”

            “Ah—” Scorpius twists to the side, rummaging through his bedside table. He comes up with a pen.

            I take it and scratch out ‘Gundersen.’ In its place, I write, ‘Sherazi.’ Capping the pen, I pass the drawing back to him. “There. Fixed it.”

            “Who—is Sherazi?”

            “That was Fatima’s last name. Gundersen is the piece of shit who abused her.”

            Scorpius stares at the page. “Good. Yes.” He pauses, then gets to his feet. “I should have a shower, then make some phone calls.”

            “Do me a favour?”

            “Anything.”

            “Please, I beg of you, take that thing off this instant. It hurts my eyes.”   

            Scorpius grins. He unzips the top, then turns his back to me. Peeling it off, he starts to do a little shimmy. It is genuinely awful. I have to bite my lips to keep from bursting out laughing. Slipping it down his lovely backside, Scorpius bends all the way over to push the rest of the thing off, wiggling his bum all the while.

            He looks back at me with a saucy wink. I’m covering my mouth, beaming. Scorpius smacks his arse a few times as he walks out the door, and I start to cackle.

 

It’s five days until Christmas, and Scorpius has lived with me for two months.

            It was his idea. I was obviously struggling, being away from him for any amount of time. I didn’t tell him that, because I didn’t want my problem to be his problem. Except he sat me down and said that it was time for him to leave the Manor. That he wanted to live here with me. That he wanted to make this our home. I didn’t try to argue with him. I mostly just tried not to cry.

            I find I do that more. Not cry, exactly. Just find myself on the verge of it. Like when I went to the Burrow and saw the little routine that Granddad and James and Lily had all established together. Or when the Minister showed up on my doorstep and simply said, “I forgive you. I hope you can forgive me.”

            Or when I went to the Janus Thickey and told Rebecca that the spell could be broken. That all you had to do was be prepared to let the person die. Really be prepared. And she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let go, saying that maybe it really would kill Richie, that maybe Scorpius was just a fluke. So Richie Vega stays in his bed at St. Mungo’s and probably always will. When I left there, I sat on the kerb outside and swallowed back the sick feeling in my throat.

            I think I’m softer than I was before. People have certainly commented on it. James and I were talking the other day, and I was encouraging him to apply for a private security job he’d mentioned, and James stopped and said, “Most people need to undergo a religious epiphany before their personality alters this much.”

            “How about you fuck yourself with a centaur’s dick?” I suggested. That actually seemed to relieve him.

            I’m definitely slower to snap than I used to be. Quicker to listen, to not jump to conclusions.

            I’m also…considerably more fragile in some ways. I have nightmares. The kind of nightmares that wake me up in cold sweats. I’ll see someone on the street that looks like Tim—like Hugo—and if I’m not with Scorpius I start panicking. I need to have my mobile on me at all times, charged. I have to know where Scorpius is. I don’t stop him from going anywhere. I just need to know where to find him if things get bad.

            We’ve talked, and my New Years’ resolution will be finding a mind healer. “Can’t I just take anti depressants like a normal person?” I complained.

            Scorpius smiled at me and said, “Love, you’ve never been normal. Let’s not start now.”

            I thought this whole thing would make me harder on people. More suspicious. Only it hasn’t. I find myself giving people more chances than I used to.

            Look at Lily. She’s back in rehab, and I’m incredibly grateful for it. About a month back, we all had a meeting, that she called, and she told us that even though she hadn’t relapsed, she felt like she needed to go back to treatment. “Not in reaction to anything,” Lily said, “but to create a different path. Because I’m ready.” I visit her once a week with James. We bring her sweets and mock one another relentlessly.

            And I think she might actually be okay. If not, we’ll deal with it, but I think this might be the time it really sticks. I _know_ I wouldn’t have thought that before this whole disaster happened.

            Right now, I’m just trying to…get things back together. Figure things out. Appreciating every single second I have with Scorpius. Thanking whatever powers exist in the universe for giving him back to me. I will meet each and every day with gratitude because I’m alive and so is he.

            Scorpius is alive, and there is literally nothing else I could ask for.

           

I make my way to the kitchen after I’ve had a shower. I don’t need to be in a rush. The only thing I have to do today is later this afternoon. Right now, I’m a man of leisure.

            Or as I’ve been reminded by multiple people, allowed to rest as I recover from trauma.

            I stop at the doorway. “Scorpius.”

            He’s setting an omelette on a plate. It looks amazing, all fluffy with peppers and cheese, and neatly sliced fruit on the side. “What?” Scorpius says without looking at me.

            “You don’t have to keep cooking for me.”

            Scorpius smiles at me, holding out a hand. “But I _like_ cooking for you.”

            He’s tried all kinds of new hobbies in the past few months. Some haven’t lasted: video games, painting, plants. Others have held. Running, for one. And cooking. Before this, we were both merely adequate cooks. Now he’s constantly trying new recipes, oftentimes making two separate meals, vegetarian for me, meat for him. He’ll come to bed with recipe books, when he’s not staying up late writing down yet another idea for the Astoria Foundation.

            I can’t even hide how pleased I am as I join him at the counter. He has _spoiled_ me ever since he came back. He fixes little things around the house that I can’t be bothered with, buys me books, sits with me for hours when I can’t breathe, when things are falling apart. Scorpius will text me throughout the day, nonsense things, love things, just to let me know he’s there.

            Scorpius pulls me in front of the food, pressing against my back. “Let me see you try it,” he murmurs, kissing my neck.

            I obligingly get a forkful. He’s even put a sprig of holly on the tray. He doesn’t need to try this hard, but he does. I stick the fork in my mouth. Furrowing my brows, I remark, “Mm. That is a lot of butter.”

            “All part of my master plan. Get you nice and thick.” Suddenly, Scorpius is pushing a hand inside my pants, purring, “Like another part of you—”

            Batting at him with my elbow, I bark, “Get off—”

            Scorpius spins me around. He pushes me back against the counter, then yanks down my trousers and underpants, dropping to his knees. The grin on his face is absolutely devilish. “Go ahead. Tell me no.”

            I breathe shallowly in response, and he just swallows me whole.

            I moan. My hands go immediately to his hair. Those cornsilk curls that make him look innocent to an innocent bystander. But I have been in this position a lot lately, and I am incredibly acquainted with how my fingers look threaded in his hair at this exact angle.

            The sex is…I mean, it is unreal. I’ve been with other men who were a bit rapacious, but this is on another level. Two days after he was back, Scorpius practically pounced on me the moment we were alone. I spoiled that by nearly crying, of course, which I couldn’t have explained, but the next time he tried it was like the heavens parted. If Scorpius had his way, we would definitely fuck more than twice a day.

            I’m not sure what it is exactly. Maybe this is how it would have always been, even without that two month gap. The way he goes about it, though, makes me think it’s a concerted effort. Every time, Scorpius seems determined to make it the best time. Like he wants each fuck, each suck, each orgasm to be remembered.

            We got in a fight about it, actually, which seems a strange thing to fight about, but it happened. “I’m _sorry_ ,” Scorpius said in frustration, “would you prefer some substandard, indifferent wank that we’ve scheduled two days in advance?”

            “Maybe I would! Maybe it would be easier than having to do _this_ each time!”

            “What _this_? I’m trying to make it good, to make you happy!”

            I yelled, “You’re trying to make it good in case it’s the last time!”

            That stopped him, and stopped the fight. Ever since, Scorpius has been a little less intense about things. I’m not a saint, though—regardless of personal feelings, I’m not going to argue if my gorgeous boyfriend wants to suck my brains out through my cock.

            Which he’s attempting at this moment. Oh, is he ever.

            It has been a pleasant surprise to discover that Scorpius is a cocksucker born. There was a goldmine of untapped talent just waiting there. He can take the tip of me all the way in, until I feel it pressed to the back of his throat. I thought I’d discovered the mythical man missing his gag reflex, but it turns out he found a spell just for that purpose. Scorpius intuitively knows exactly how I want to be touched. He caresses me with his tongue, tightens his lips, scrapes me ever so gently with his teeth. He does it with such joyful enthusiasm that it makes it twice as hot.

            My only job is to not burst within the first minute. Which can be a fucking struggle.

            His hands take hold of my backside, digging in, and I’m done. He knows not to do that to me if he wants it to last. I clench, tugging on his hair. I don’t bother warning him. Scorpius always swallows, except for when he’s being a mischievous bitch.

            I come in a rush. Not too hard. Enough that I feel incredible.

            Right after is a wave of relaxation. Exactly what I needed. I bet Scorpius knew I needed this. He always knows.

            He’s nuzzling against my pubic hairs, laying little kisses to my quivering prick. “You have to stop,” I murmur, stroking his hair.

            “I don’t want to stop.”

            “If you don’t stop, I’m going to drag you back to bed and give you the slowest, laziest shag of your life, over the course of a full day.”

            “You say that like it’s a threat.”

            “You said you had a meeting with Kimber at 10.”

            Scorpius’ lips pause. “Meetings can be rescheduled.” I wait, smirking. “But it wouldn’t be very thoughtful of me, would it.”

            “Mm, no. And you’re very thoughtful.”

            There’s a crack from the backyard, and we both jerk. I automatically push his head down a bit, grimacing, to hide him from sight.

            Scorpius just snickers. “Who the hell would be here this early?” I mutter.

            “I keep telling you, 9 isn’t early.” He reaches up, tugging my hand out of his hair. Then Scorpius takes hold of my trousers and pants, and pulls them up as he stands. Completely shameless, the bugger. He smiles at me conspiratorially, then looks over my shoulder.    

            His eyes go cold.

            “What’s she doing here?” Scorpius asks.

            I look back. At first, I’m not exactly sure who it is. A second later, I realize that it’s Rose. What threw me was her hair. She’s let it go entirely natural, a mass of tight red curls that defy gravity. I haven’t seen her hair like that since we were kids.

            She stands in the backyard, looking down. She has a stack of papers in her hands. She knows we’re here, she’s just not making an effort to come to the door. Waiting for one of us to come to her.

            I look at Scorpius. I find it hard to look at his face when it’s like this. Shut down. He doesn’t even look like his father when his expression is like this. When Mr. Malfoy doesn’t like a person, there’s something uncontrolled in his eyes, and a sneer on his lips.

            Scorpius just looks unreachable.

            I hesitate, then say the name we don’t utter in the house. “I’m not sure. Maybe—it’s about Hugo?”

            His eyes don’t so much as flicker at the name. Scorpius gives his head a shake. “What I said stands. I don’t want anyone from that family in our house. Get rid of her.”

            It’s difficult, to hear his voice like that.

            Scorpius sees that I’m uncomfortable, and some warmth returns to his face. Leaning towards me, he holds my eyes and says, “I’m going to the city to see Kimber, then take care of some things. Remember, don’t make plans for tonight. I want…you all...to myself.”

            He keeps his eyes open as he kisses me. Making sure I taste myself on his mouth. Scorpius does that because he knows I love it. I love how filthy he can be when it’s just he and I. He kisses me one more time to drive the point home, then walks away without another glance outside.

            I take a deep breath. I never thought I’d be in _this_ position.

            I walk to the door. I have a heavy knit sweater I keep there, and slippers. Putting them both on, I brace myself, then step outside.

            It’s snowed more overnight. It looks properly like Christmas this year. Scorpius and I spent a solid afternoon decorating out here, putting up lights and conjuring all kinds of creatures out of snow.

            Rose stands towards the back of the yard. She’s wearing Muggle winter clothes, with the kind of gloves that reveal the fingers. She stays where she is, standing in the snow.

            I close the door behind myself and walk across the yard.

            “Hi,” I say.

            Rose lets out a breath she’s been holding. “Hi.”

            “What’s going on?”

            Rose looks down at a thick stack of paper that she’s holding in both hands. I can’t see what’s on it. “You’re going to think it’s silly.”

            “The world is silly.”

            Rose chews on her lip. I see the pouches under her eyes. I see that her nails were painted, but the colour has chipped away.

            “It’s been two months,” Rose says, and I don’t react. “I mean, we say it’s been two months, but I haven’t seen him in three. And the aurors—they pretend like they care, but they don’t. I mean—I’m not saying anything against your dad, but…” Rose shakes her head, unable to speak a moment.

            “It’s okay. Merlin knows Dad and I have had our differences.”

            Rose nods, then says, “I just couldn’t wait around anymore. I had to do _something_. I’ve—I’ve put ads in papers, and gone to every person I could think of, and called in every favour I’ve ever accumulated, and…and I’ve gotten nowhere. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth.” Rose pushes her hair back from her face. “Then I realized how stupid I was being. He doesn’t have magic, so why am I only going through witches and wizards? So I’ve been trying every Muggle thing I can think of, only I’m not very good at it, and…but I’m trying. I have to keep trying.”

            I nod, unable to say anything.

            “I’ve done everything I can think of, and it’s not working, but I thought—maybe—well, I made up all these posters, and…” Rose looks down at the paper, and I realize what she’s holding. “I thought I’d put as many of these up in London as I could. And I know—I _know_ , they’re saying he’s not even in the country, but if someone saw something, anything, I have to at least try.”

            I pull my sweater closer around myself, staying where I am.

            Rose gives her head a shake, then says desperately, “It’s almost Christmas. Mum and Dad are—I have to get him back for Christmas. I have to at least _try_. And maybe I’m being foolish, and wasting my time, but—I have to do something.” Rose looks up at me. “Would you help me?”

            It takes me a moment.

            I say, “Of course.”

 

It’s nearly noon before I allow myself to look at what I’m actually putting up.

            We’re in Pimlico, and I’ve spelled dozens of posters to lamp lights and shop windows and empty walls. I even magicked a few to some trees. The whole time, though, I’ve avoided meeting eyes with the poster itself.

            For some reason, I do so now.

            The word MISSING is right at the top in big block letters. Then two pictures of Hugo. One is from the back cover of his books. The other—I remember the day exactly. His birthday last year. He’s grinning ear to ear, looking out at the world with absolute confidence.

            Beneath the photos is written, ‘Hugo Granger-Weasley. 22 years old. Red hair, green eyes, brown skin, freckles. Average height and weight. Hugo was last heard from November 2, 2030. Hugo might be injured or unsure of where he is. May be overseas. Contact for reward on information leading to Hugo’s return to his family.’

            I sigh, looking at Hugo’s face. It’s eerie, seeing his face in a Muggle photograph. It’s like he’s been frozen.

            I think of the day I went to his office and told him I needed help. How he let me believe he was the only one who could help me. How relieved, how grateful I was. How I didn’t question when he and Tim took me out that night. How I didn’t think twice when they took me to a secluded spot where no one knew we were, and how I apparated away on a whim. I think of what might have happened if I hadn’t.

            I turn away, shivering.

            Rose is sitting across the street. Her head is down. I watch her a long moment. We haven’t really spoken the last few hours. We haven’t really spoken the last few _months_. But today, I just let her tell me what to do and where to go, and went about it.

            She looks lost.

            Fuck. This is really awkward. I’m not quite sure what made me come out today at all.

            She’s grieving and scared. It was the least I could do.

            I look both ways, then cross the street, breathing out fog.

            Rose doesn’t raise her head as I approach. Hesitantly, I look around, then take a seat beside her on the bench.

            “This can’t be happening,” Rose says hollowly. “Not after everything that’s happened this year.”

            “I’m sorry it’s been such a rough year, Rose.”

            “Did I invite this?”

            “What?”

            “Is this—is this what I deserve?”

            “No. No, of course not.”

            Rose shakes her head. “Because I can’t help thinking that it is. Except if it’s a matter of what I deserve, it doesn’t make sense for Mum and Dad. They’re good people—they’re the best people—and they don’t deserve this.” Rose inhales, gazing into nothingness. “Mum is shattered. Dad just sits in the basement all day. He can’t go to work. The only time they talk is when they’re trying to figure out ways to find him. Half the time it’s only conmen trying to make money, but they’re desperate.” She drops the appeals to the bench in frustration. “Not so desperate they’re putting up posters in a country he didn’t even disappear from.”

            “I heard you went to South Africa.”

            “Dead end. I’m not sure he was ever there at all.”

            “I thought he sent letters from there.”

            “That’s what the postmark said, but I couldn’t find a single person in Johannesburg who’d seen him. We stick out, he and I. Nothing.” Rose says, “It makes no _sense_.”

            It makes perfect sense. I shift, biting my upper lip.

            When Rose speaks again, it’s careful, only I can hear the heartache there. “Do you…do you know what they’re saying about him?”

            “What’s that?”

            “That he had something to do with it. That he stole his magic from himself.” I feel her eyes on my face, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. “That he and Tim were in it together.” If Rose is waiting for a reply, she’s going to be waiting a long time. “No one’s really saying it, but the rumours—I know what people think. Except they don’t know him. I know him. Hugo would never, ever do something like that to us. He’d never do this.”

            “Then what do the rumours matter?”

            “Because it’s keeping people from trying to find him! Once the aurors decided that he was a suspect instead of a victim—they act _irritated_ when I ask for an update. I was a Junior Minister, my mother was Minister for Magic, our family is tied to the Ministry—but they act like we’re no one. Like he’s no one. How am I supposed to find him if no one will help me?”

            “I’m helping you.”

            Rose nods. Then she asks, “Do you think Hugo was a part of it?”

            To my credit, I don’t skip a beat. “No. Of course not.”

            She falters. For a moment, I think she’s going to cry, and I wonder what I’m doing. Rose swallows, getting herself under control, then says hoarsely, “Scorpius does.”

            I look away.

            I need a moment before I can reply. “Scorpius has been through a lot.”

            “I don’t understand it. The both of you—you’re his best friends. Tim attacked him—he attacked my brother, he nearly killed Scorpius, so—why do you believe me but he doesn’t? Scorpius knows Hugo, he knows he would never do anything like this.”

            It’s funny, that. Scorpius and I…we haven’t actually discussed Hugo. About a week after he woke up, I thought I should maybe bring it up. We were playing a card game, and I said as casually as I could, “I have to tell you something about Hugo.”

            Scorpius shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

            I was surprised. His father and I had agreed that I’d be the one to tell him. I thought maybe Mr. Malfoy had let something slip. When I asked him, though, he hadn’t. Then a few weeks later, when Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron showed up at our house to ask if we knew anything, Scorpius stopped me before I could even answer the door. “I don’t want them here,” he said. I was so taken aback that I couldn’t even respond. Scorpius pointed outside in their direction. “Them, Rose—any of them. That family isn’t welcome here.”

            I tried to get him to talk about it later, but I couldn’t get another word out of him. I haven’t made the effort since. Scorpius is a clever man. We have an understanding.

            “He’s less forgiving than he used to be,” I tell Rose. “He and I haven’t actually talked about it, and I haven’t pressed. For all I know—maybe he’s upset with Hugo because he thought he should have known. Maybe it’s misplaced guilt. I’m not sure, Rose. I’m sorry.”

            “Is he doing okay?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, he’s brilliant. Different, but not in a bad way. He has an impossible amount of energy. Hates sleeping, but that’s understandable. He’s working on the foundation. He’ll have the majority of low income witches and wizards in decent housing in the next few years, I’m sure of it. It’s good to see him so excited about things. He’s just eager to get on with his life. To do as much as he can with the time he has.”

            “That’s good. I’m glad.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Does he remember any of it?”

            I raise my shoulders, waffling. “That’s hard to say. We don’t talk about it that much. I think he has pieces here and there. Not much more than that, I don’t think.”

            “Albus?”

            “Yeah, Rose?”

            Rose says quietly, “Do you think Mr. Malfoy did something to Hugo?”

            I need to work very hard to keep my expression blank.

            “No,” I say. Rose doesn’t look convinced. “I spent two months, day in and day out, with Draco Malfoy, so I’d say I have a pretty good idea of his character. Would I want to face him in a business setting? Christ no, he would salt and burn my fields. Do I think that he would hurt the son of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger? Absolutely not. He knows Hugo didn’t have anything to do with this. Even if Scorpius isn’t sure, Mr. Malfoy is. We _have_ talked about that. If something happened to Hugo, it had nothing to do with Mr. Malfoy.”

            Rose thinks about it, then nods.

            “What do you think happened to him?” she asks.

            “I don’t know. Honestly? I think he’s probably fine.” I smile a bit. “This is _not_ the first time Hugo’s been out of touch for more than a few months.”

            “Not like this. He always tells us he’s going first. And he doesn’t have magic. Who knows—who knows what could have happened to him?”

            I raise my shoulders, pretending to think about it. “One time, he told me he saw a wizard in Malaysia who could give magic to people who didn’t have it. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say Hugo was out there. I’d say he’s searching for something.”

            “I need to _know_.”

            “Yeah. I’m sorry, Rose.”

            “I’m sorry too.”

            “Are you okay? I know that’s a bloody stupid question, but like—any prospects?”

            Rose gives her head another shake. “There’s nothing else until I get him back. Nothing else matters.” Rose gives me a long looking over. “You’re kinder than you used to be,” Rose says. “It’s a good look on you.”

            “Thank you.”

            Rose takes a deep breath, setting her shoulders straight. “These won’t put themselves up.” She picks up the missing person appeals and stands.

            I take a few seconds. Then I go to join her, calling home a man I know will never return.

 

“Refill?”

            I glance up, shaking my head. “No, thank you.”

            The waitress stands there, coffee pot in hand. “Still waiting?”

            “No, my imaginary friend showed up minutes ago, so why don’t you pour him a cup?”

            She rolls her eyes and keeps walking. I might have mellowed, but my tolerance for stupidity is still at a steady zero.

            I’m in an American style diner, not too far from the Ministry. I’m always early, but we’re veering into the territory of his being late. Typical. I sip the dregs at the bottom of my cup, watching the world outside.

            It’s close enough to Christmas that I expect many of the people outside are trying to get last minute shopping done. It’s Friday afternoon, and most people will be going on holiday. Things always shut down around the Ministry at Christmas.

            Our holiday plans are relatively lowkey. Scorpius wanted to make some grand gesture, but that’s not what I wanted. We need to start making traditions. He and I will go to my parents’ on the 24th. Granddad will join us. We’ll spend Christmas morning at our place, then go to the Manor for dinner. It will be the first Christmas dinner I haven’t spent at the Burrow. Again, though…I know not to put Scorpius into a situation with my extended family.

            _Do you think Mr. Malfoy did something to Hugo_?

            I see Dad come walking briskly down the street. His brow is furrowed, hands deep in his pockets. I relax a bit, realizing only now that I’ve been tense. We’ve been doing this for awhile now, getting together once a week. Each time, though—I suppose I’m a bit surprised when he shows up.

            Dad comes through the door, saying, “Happy Christmas,” to the people behind the counter. He catches sight of me and puts up a hand. Dad reaches the table and sheds his overrobes. “Sorry I’m late.”

            “You’re always late.”

            “You’re always too early.”

            “You and Scorpius are in disagreement there.”

            “Sorry?”

            “Never mind.” The waitress brings a cup of coffee for Dad, and I say to her, “See? Imaginary friend.”

            “Antagonizing the staff?”

            “This is not me antagonizing anyone.”

            Dad makes a doubtful noise, then says to the waitress with a smile, “I’ll have some of that pie there. Thank you.” She leaves and Dad folds his hands on the table, beaming at me. “Happy Christmas.”

            My father loves Christmas. He always has. For him, it’s the highlight of the year. For weeks before the 25th, everywhere he goes it’s always Happy Christmas to literally any person he encounters.

            “You’re looking well,” Dad says.

            We always start with small talk. It’s safe. “Thank you. Did you get a haircut?”

            “Just a bit. Keep it healthy.”

            Then he makes a comment about the weather, so I make a comment about the weather. Then we talk about the weather some more.

            We started having these meetings in late September. Dad firecalled me one day from his office and asked if I was doing anything. Asked if I wanted to have dinner. Of course, I assumed that something was wrong. That he was dying or Mum was dying or Voldemort was returning. When I got there, I kept wanting to know what was wrong, and he kept saying that nothing was wrong, and then he got angry and asked why he couldn’t just have dinner with his son, and then it devolved into an argument in the middle of a curry house we will never be able to return to.

            The next week, Dad asked again, only this time he said, “I should have told you what I wanted. I’d like to get to know you. Could we try that?”

            So we went to dinner, and the next week lunch, and we’ve kept at it. We’ve had some good conversations. And some terrible conversations. But we’re still trying.

            “Are you done at the Ministry until the new year?”

            Dad cringes. “Yes. Maybe.” I arch a brow. “I’m going to do my very best to not go in until the new year. I told your mum I would, so…I’m going to try to stick to that.”

            “Don’t try, just do it.”

            Dad says in a funny voice, “Do or do not, there is no try.” I don’t react. “That’s from a movie—”

            “Yeah, I know.”

            Dad smiles again at the waitress who brings his pie. He plants his fingers on the table, hesitating, then says, “Speaking of the Ministry—” I sigh, and Dad lifts his hand. “Hear me out.”

            I grimace, then wave him on.

            “They are looking for a receptionist in the Department of Magical Creatures.” Dad raises his eyebrows encouragingly.

            I wait a moment to see if any more information is available. “I give very few fucks about magical creatures, and I would cut my own throat before voluntarily working with the public.”

            “All right, yes, I know that, but—there’s a spell on the position. They can’t prove it, but it’s the truth. Everyone who takes the job ends up a success. The woman leaving it now, she’s going into the Office of Liaison to Muggle Government, and they haven’t had an opening in years. The one before her, she found gold in her basement and she not only has a boat, but she breeds miniature poodles that can do math.” I mouth, ‘A boat,’ mock impressed, but Dad’s not deterred. “And the man before her, he started Funston’s Family Funhouse, that place where all the little witches and wizards go for birthdays and parties and things like that. And _he’s_ a millionaire.”

            “So let me get this straight. You think the only way I can achieve success is through enchantment.”

            Dad’s face darkens. “Why do you always do that, you twist my words—” He stops. He takes a breath, then says steadily, “I did not consider that you would think of it that way. What I meant to say was, I think that you deserve some good luck, and I want to give you every opportunity to succeed.”

            Therapy has done some funny things to Dad. He uses a lot of ‘I’ statements. I don’t know, for some reason, when he does, I actually find it a bit endearing.

            “Dad, I don’t want to work at the Ministry.”

            “Well, where do you want to work?”

            “I don’t know.” He sighs, and I say, “We’ve spoken about this before.”

            “Two weeks ago. I thought there might have been some movement since then. I mean— _I_ appreciate that you need some time—”

            “ _Dad_.”

            “What?”

            “If I make a decision about work, I’ll let you know.”

            He’s not pleased about that, but I can tell he’s not going to try and fight about it. “I’m sorry. None of my kids are working right now, and…I find that stressful.”

            “That makes sense. _I_ appreciate your feelings.”

            “You know what, smart arse—”

            Smiling briefly, I fidget with my fork. “James is looking for work.”

            Dad’s face slackens slightly. “He is?” he says, relieved.

            “Yeah. He’s okay. I thought…you two were going to talk.”

            “He didn’t tell you?” I shake my head, and Dad admits, “He came over. You know, I wanted to just make a big deal of it at Christmas, but your Mum said that wasn’t fair to anyone, so we tried a trial run.”

            “And?”

            “We got into it. Or—he yelled at me for quite a bit, then he threw a vase at my head and apparated.” I make a face, and Dad says, “Merlin’s saggy tits, sometimes I wish you kids were more like your mum instead of me.”

            “Is he still coming for Christmas Eve?”

            “I think so. I hope so. And your sister too, for the evening at least. That’ll be interesting, eh? All of us together at the same time?”

            It’s the first real family dinner we’ll have with Scorpius. Scorpius and I went out with Mum and Dad a few weeks ago. It was awkward, but doable.

            “It’ll be something,” I say neutrally. “Look, Dad, I promise that when I know something about work, you’ll know something about work. I’m just not ready to make a decision. It’s not like I’m not okay for money. But I want to do something—eventually. The idea of staying at home until I die isn’t appealing either.”

            Dad says innocently, “You don’t fancy being a housewife?”

            I stare at him. “You ever call me a housewife again, I’ll give you back the Elder Wand. Only in a place you don’t like.”

            Hissing, Dad looks around. “Would you—keep your voice down?”

            “Oh please. I murdered the Minister’s son in cold blood; I think people might think twice about attacking me in broad daylight.”

            Dad flexes his hands. His knuckles are going pale. Very carefully, Dad says, “It—upsets me—when you say things like that.”

            “Then get a helmet, because I’m always going to say things like that.”

            “You didn’t murder anyone—”

            “I could have incapacitated him. I hit him with a Killing Curse so strong it left a dent in his head. A spell that infamously leaves no marks. We both know I would have been charged if you weren’t my father. That’s two sons you’ve saved now. Thank God Lily’s in rehab, at least one of us isn’t currently a danger to society—”

            Dad puts his hands to his face.

            I press my mouth together.

            “Okay,” I say quietly. “I will stop.”

            “I would appreciate it if you did.” Dad drops his hands, gazing outside. He’s shaking his head a little, looking grave. “I know that we all deal in different ways, but…you’re a little too quick to make a joke of things that aren’t that funny. And that can be hard to hear.”

            “So I shouldn’t follow up with how many dead baby thestrals it takes to change a light bulb.”

            “No, Albus, you shouldn’t.” Dad rubs his hands together, then says, “I just—don’t want you to be like me.”

            “I know—”

            “No, listen to me. I never wanted the three of you to be exposed to the same kind of shit I was when I was young. As much as—yeah, I was envious of the fact that you weren’t, even frustrated by how ungrateful you seemed for it—and this is only my perspective, mind—I never wanted you to see the things I did. But in some cases, you have, and the three of you have seen all other kinds of horrors I never did. Done things you’re not proud of. I know that’s part of growing up, but not like this. It shouldn’t have been like this. And I couldn’t stop that, because I was too busy being up my own arse about my own pain. And not even admitting that pain was real! And I know what you’re going to say to me, it’s really rich, me acting like I’ve changed all that much when just five months ago I did something to you that’s unforgivable. I know that, I know. Now I’m rambling, but I just—” Dad sighs, frustrated. “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. I _know_ that’s cliched. I _know_. I want you to make mistakes that I never did. I want you to look at the stupid, terrible things I’ve done, and don’t do what I did. I want you to fuck up in ways I’ve never imagined of, and be the better for it. I see you looking at me, and I know you think I’m just saying things you already know, but I want you to listen, really listen. I’d put it better if I could, but I don’t know how. I just want things to be better for you. Be better to your children. Be better to yourself. That’s all, really.” Blushing, Dad avoids my eyes. “I don’t know, Albus.”

            I study him a long moment. He looks better. Like he sleeps more.

            “That voice in your head that sounds like me,” I say. “Tell him to tone it down.”

            Dad snorts softly. He forces himself to look at me. “I figured something out. One of the reasons I’ve always—had a difficult time around you. You’ll think it’s ridiculous, but—” Dad pauses, then admits, “You _intimidate_ me.”

            I need a few seconds.

            I smile.

 

“Which direction are you headed?” Dad pulls a face, and I say, “What about your promise?!”

            “If I don’t take care of the last few things at the Ministry now, I’ll be back in there on Monday. I’ll do it now so I can be there for her the next two weeks. A promise is a promise.”

            I give Dad a dubious look, then say, “You had better bring her something nice tonight.”

            We’re standing outside the diner. It’s late in the afternoon. Not dark yet, but the sun is fairly low in the sky. I don’t imagine Scorpius will be home yet. It’ll give me some time to get dinner together before he can try and make it for me.

            Dad says, “On that note—do you think she’d like a poinsettia?”

            I wait for the punchline, then say, “As opposed to what?”

            “Look, I know your mum has always said she doesn’t like flowers, but it’s festive, at least. Would she accept it if it was festive?”

            “Why do you think Mum needs flowers?”

            Dad takes a deep breath, then says nervously, “We’re—going on a date tomorrow.”

            “A—date?”

            “It’s the first time we’ve done something like that since last spring. I want to make a good impression.”

            “At this rate, you’ll be under her shirt by New Year’s.”

            Dad gapes at me. “That—is your _mother_ you’re talking about!”

            I shrug. “She’d tell me if she got under your shirt.” She would not, mostly because I’d puke in my mouth if she tried, but I’m committing to the bit. Dad is so flustered that I take pity on him. “Don’t get her flowers, you know she hates them. It’s more important if you get her something you know she likes.”

            “Wouldn’t it mean more? If I showed that I was trying to do things the traditional way?”

            “Mum’s not traditional.”

            “Does—Scorpius not bring you flowers?”

            It’s an unexpectedly sweet question. “He does, but only when he’s trying to be funny. If he really wants to get on my good side, he brings me books. I mean it, get Mum something she’ll appreciate.”

            “A new broom?”

            “Too big.”

            Dad thinks, then says, “New stirrups for her broom.”

            “Perfect.” A touch hesitant, I say, “Scorpius and I are having a date night tomorrow.”

            “Well—good luck with your date.”

            “Good luck with _your_ date.”

            A car honks its horn. Dad turns his head to look at it, and I act on impulse.

            I hug him.        

            His whole body tenses. I almost pull away, but Dad grabs onto me.

            “Are we—people who hug?” he asks.

            A memory comes to me. An old, old memory. I smile, and say, “I guess.” I step away from him. Maybe I should clarify. “Like—not all the time. We’re not going to hug each time, just so we’re clear.”

            Amused, Dad says, “Clear.”

            “All right. I need to get home. I’ll see you next week.”

            “See you next week. Albus?”

            I stop, turning back to him. “Yeah, Dad?”

            With a straight face, Dad says, “How many dead baby thestrals _does_ it take to change a lightbulb?”

            I answer, “Fuck if I know. Can’t see the things.” Dad grins, and the odd thing is, I see myself in his face. I see a lot of myself in his face. I roll my eyes, and add, “I mean, obviously _I_ can see the things. It’s just, it works better if—”

            “You know what really makes a joke land? Explaining it after.”

            Flushing, I narrow my eyes at him. “Bye Dad,” I say, a little irritated.

            “Love you,” Dad calls.

            Shaking my head as I walk away, I admit, “I love you too.”

 

I’m going to make vegetable biryani for dinner. I think about it all the way home, because I don’t have the ingredients. I get what I need at Tesco’s, then walk home in the quiet snow.

            I’m happy. Oh God, I am _happy_.

            I open the gate through the hedges, anticipating tonight. A night in with Scorpius. Literally my favourite thing in the world.

            Only I stop before closing the gate. Mr. Malfoy is seated on the front step, Aedesia in his gloved hands.

            Pausing, I say, “Hi.”

            Mr. Malfoy smiles at me. “Hello.”

            He and I haven’t been alone in—weeks? Months. Not since Scorpius and I left the Manor. At first because of circumstance. And then because…maybe because I avoided him.

            Scratching behind Aedesia’s ear, Mr. Malfoy says, “This ridiculous bird knocked itself unconscious against the drawing room window. I rescued her from the peacocks, though that might have simply been thwarting natural selection. I thought it best to bring her back myself, lest she concuss herself again.”

            Sighing, I mutter, “Stupid bird.” I walk across the lawn, unlocking the door. I put the bags inside, then take Aedesia from his hands. “Get in there.” She flaps haphazardly inside. I watch a moment to make sure Zamora doesn’t attack her.

            “Albus.”

            “Yes?”

            “Are you afraid of me?”

            I turn around. Mr. Malfoy has gotten to his feet. He doesn’t look threatening, or upset. Maybe a little curious. A little sad. But I have to think about the question.

            “Should I be?” I settle on.

            Mr. Malfoy smiles crookedly at that. “I would say that is your decision.”

            “I don’t know that I would.”

            Mr. Malfoy nods. “Then I would tell you that you’re family to me. Family is paramount. There is nothing you could say or do, ever, that would make me turn my back to you. You’re under my protection until I shuffle off this mortal coil. I’m concerned that you don’t know that. After all we’ve been through.”

            I hold onto the doorframe. “You and I went through hell together,” I agree. “And there have been times when you’ve been more of a father to me than my own dad.”

            “But?”

            “But—I spent five hours today with Rose. Putting up missing person appeals for her brother. I remember that we had an agreement if Scorpius didn’t come back from the curse. Only we never talked about what would happen if Scorpius woke up. He woke up, but no one has seen or heard from my cousin in two months.” Mr. Malfoy continues nodding, unfazed. Trying to keep my voice even, I ask, “Where is Hugo?”

            Mr. Malfoy takes a deep breath, then says, “You know, after Scorpius was so sick for so long, I decided to take some time for myself. You remember, when I went to France those few days. I decided some retail therapy was in order, so I haunted old estate sales. One of my absolute favourite things to do. And at this ancient, decrepit castle in Val d-‘Oise, I found the most peculiar item I simply _had_ to have.” Mr. Malfoy asks me, “Have you ever heard of a _boîte aveugle_?”

            I gaze at him with wide eyes. Yes. Yes, I know what a blind box is.

            “No,” I say faintly. “Can’t say as I have.”

            Mr. Malfoy knows I’m lying. He steps closer to me, and puts his hands to my face.

            “I hope you and my son have a long and happy life together,” Mr. Malfoy says, gazing at me with those silver eyes. “It is one of my greatest dreams that someday the two of you will make Malfoy Manor your home, and bring it some of that precious happiness. And I know that you are a curious man, and it’s only natural that you would want to explore the secrets there. But I would advise you not go too far or too deep in those halls. Or else you might find something better left…unseen.”

            My mouth is filled with saliva. I make it go down.

            I nod once, and Mr. Malfoy smiles again. Letting go, he steps away from me. At the last second, though, Mr. Malfoy turns back. “Oh, I forgot. Happy Christmas.”

            He holds out his arms.

            This man went halfway around the world to save his son. When the time came, he was willing to look past his own needs to do what was best for the man I love most in the universe. He promised to always look after me.

            I go to him, and I hug him as hard as I can.

            Yes, I’m afraid of him. And yes, I love him too.

 

When Scorpius comes home, we have a mock fight about dinner. How he was supposed to make it, and I’m undermining him, and it’s just ridiculous and mostly flirtation.

            Once we settle down to eat, though, I can tell that something is on his mind. “What’s happening in there?” I ask.

            Scorpius looks up, blinking. “Oh. Honestly?” I nod, and he says regretfully, “I should have gone with you today.”

            “Really?”

            “I think I might have…been a real tit about the whole thing.”

            “I wouldn’t go that far.”

            “You might not, because you think I fart rainbows, but I have. I don’t want to talk about…I don’t want to talk about him. I’m just not ready for that, but—I’m really upset at him for doing this to them.” I wait for him to elaborate, and Scorpius says, “Him just taking off and hiding from all of us. Making his family _sick_. He should just bloody come back here and face it like a man.”

            He stabs at his meal, and I consider my options. I’d wondered if he knew…but I guess he doesn’t. And I will not be the one to tell him.

            “Can you tell Rose I’m sorry?”

            “Jesus, I’m not going to be your middle man—”

            “All right, okay. Next time I see her, though who knows when that will be…I’ll be nicer.” Frowning, Scorpius says, “I don’t like not being nice to people. It feels unnatural.”

            I smother a smile. Then I say, “By the way, I’m not under the impression that you fart rainbows. Your farts are genuinely terrible, just like everyone else.”

            “Lies,” Scorpius says. “They smell of elderberry and bliss.”

            “Eat your dinner, you loony.”

 

We’re listening to a Belle and Sebastian record. I’m laying with my head on his lap, my favourite quilt draped over my body. Scorpius is stroking my hair. It’s dark outside, but it’s not late by any stretch of the imagination. I could spend all evening like this. I hope we do.

            “You know what I feel like?” Scorpius says.

            I groan.

            “What? What’s that noise for?”

            “You’re going to want us to go out. You _always_ want to go out. Can I not just have one night in with my boyfriend? Just one, without you collecting bloody life experiences?”

            “I was going to say, before you got all dramatic—”

            “I swear by Salazar Slytherin, if anything you say involves us leaving this house, I will put your balls in a vise and douse them in lemon juice.”

            Scorpius takes a long pause before speaking. “I was hoping we could go out to—”

            Pushing myself up to sit, I say, “Fuck off.”

            “No, hey, listen.” Scorpius puts a hand to the back of my neck. “I was sitting here thinking—wouldn’t it be nice if you and I went down to Dover? Eh? We haven’t been down there since our first date. Imagine what it must look like now. All crisp and nice now that it’s winter. I would have thought that’s right up your alley.”

            God damn him. Why does he have to be so fucking offhandedly romantic all the time?

            “I just want to stay in,” I plead.

            “Tell me honestly. Wouldn’t you like to have a look-see? Is that something you’d enjoy?”

            Exhaling, I say, “Theoretically, I suppose—”

            “So let’s go.”

            “Scorpius. It’s 8:30 at night, it’s December—”

            “We’ll be home by 10.” He gives me his biggest eyes. “Cross my heart. Earlier, if you want. Indulge me, Albus. Please?”

            Sixty three days.

            I let out the most put upon sigh in all of recorded history.

 

When we arrive on the cliffs, I take a single look around, then say, “Looks the same as last time. Okay, let’s go home.”

            I turn around to leave, and Scorpius grabs me by the shoulders, forcing me around. “Come on,” he laughs, taking my hand. “You’re so sour.”

            “I’m cold,” I grumble.

            “There’s not even snow here. Stop your fussing. Enjoy it.”

            He leads me out to the edge of the cliff. We stand at the peak, looking over the ocean. There is something to be said for the sea at night, in the winter. The stars are stunningly clear. To our right, the town lays quiet, with all its lights. Which no, I will not be turning out.

            Or vanishing.

            “Surprised sirens didn’t go off the moment we got here,” I remark.

            “They never caught us the first time.”

            “Oh yes. We’re such outlaws.” I thread my fingers through Scorpius’ and rest my head on his shoulder.

            “I love this place,” says Scorpius.

            “I’m glad.” I kiss him on the jaw, and I watch him, watching the world.

            After a few minutes, Scorpius takes a deep breath. “Ask you something?” I nod. “If it hadn’t worked, what you and Dad did…if I hadn’t come back, or hadn’t died, if I just continued on the way I was…what would you have done?”

            Confused, I say, “What do you mean?”

            “It’s—not a complicated question, Albus.”

            “I would have done the same thing I’d already been doing. I didn’t want you to die, you idiot. I only wanted what was best for you. If I thought you’d be in that bed forever, I would have stayed in that bed with you forever.”

            Scorpius sighs. “See—I don’t like that. I don’t like the idea of you—giving up your entire life for me.”

            Annoyed, I let him go. “I don’t give a shit if you like it or not. It’s what I would have done.”

            I walk away from the cliff’s edge, back the way we came.                      

            “Albus,” Scorpius calls. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it. I’m saying I feel guilty.”

            I turn back to him. “Fuck your guilt. It was my choice. It’s always been my choice to love you. I loved you a long time without expecting anything in return, and I would have loved you always even if you and I hadn’t ended up together. Do not feel sorry for me.”

            “Would you really?’

            “What? Why are you asking these stupid questions?”

            “They’re not stupid—”

            “They are, and I wish you’d stop—”

            “I honestly want to know. If I hadn’t gotten you angry that day, and you hadn’t told me then that you loved me, would you have ever?”

            “No, of course not.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I didn’t want to burden you. Because you’ve always come first. You know, I didn’t agree earlier but I do now: you’re being a real tit today.”

            “Because I’m asking you questions?”

            “Because you’re asking questions with obvious answers, except you don’t seem to like the answers, only the answer each time is that I love you. Is that a problem for you?”

            “No! I’m just trying to have a conversation—”

            “You’re not, you’re working me up and I don’t care for it—”

            “May I tell you something?”

            “No! You may not, because everything else you’ve told me has been irritating as shit, and I don’t know why you needed to drag me out to _Dover_ to argue when we could have done it in the comfort of our own home—”

            “I remember.”

            “Remember what?”

            “Everything. The entire two months. I remember all of it.”

            That shuts me up.

            Scorpius smiles at me affectionately, hands in the pockets of his robes, wind rustling his hair. “We didn’t really talk about it, and I didn’t exactly volunteer. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. You said things to me that I don’t think you would have told me if you thought I could hear you. I didn’t want to embarrass you. The thing is, I was completely conscious the entire time. Twenty four seven. It was like I was trapped in a room I couldn’t get out of, with no doors or windows. I could hear everything that was said, though. I should have lost my mind. Maybe I even did, a little. The thing that made it bearable, though, the only thing, was your voice. Having you and Dad there. The way you spoke to me. How I knew you were always there. If I tried hard enough, I even felt you. When you weren’t speaking and I knew it was night, I’d feel you in bed with me. Holding me. Making sure I was never alone.”

            Scorpius says hesitantly, “And the thing is—I died?”

            Mouth falling open, I yelp, “You _what_?!”

            “At the end, when you both made the decision to let me go—it opened a door. And I went through. Rather, I was sucked out, like someone opened a door on an airplane at three thousand feet. I went to a place that…was not this place. And…my mum was there.” Scorpius’ mouth turns up wistfully. “She looked so beautiful. Healthy, like I’d never seen her. She let me know—it was my time. I was supposed to die. That spell should have put me in the grave. Only I refused.”

            “You what? Why?”

            Incredulous, Scorpius exclaims, “I wasn’t going to _leave_ you here. Christ, Albus, you can be thick sometimes. Wonderfully, remarkably thick. I love you. Whatever’s beyond this world—I don’t fucking need it. Not unless I’m with you.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah, _oh_. You want to say something else smart while I’m trying to tell you how much I love you? Because I’m not quite sure it overrules ‘I delayed my eternal reward to be with you.’”

            I let my head fall back. “Fuck!” I yell at the night sky.

            “What?”

            I shake my head at him in disbelief. “I’m never going to win a fight with you again in our lives, am I? Every time I have the upper hand—which will be every time—you’re going to pull out that little nugget. This is just incredibly unfair.”

            Scorpius grins. “Only you could make something like this a personal slight.”

            “You’re damned right I am.” I sigh, then tramp back towards him. Stopping before him, I study this peculiar man. “Are you sure you made the right decision?”

            Scorpius rolls his eyes. He’s about to say something, only he looks past me with a furrowed brow. “What’s that?”

            I look back over my shoulder. The lights in the town are turning off. One by one, they blink out. Not in sections, either. It seems like every person in town is turning their lights out without rhyme or reason. I wonder, “Why are they doing that?”

            “I asked them to.”

            Perplexed, I turn back to him, saying, “You what?” Only he’s disappeared.

            No, not disappeared. Why on earth is Scorpius on his knee? And what is this thing he’s holding up to me.

            Wait.

            Scorpius is on one knee and he’s holding up a ring. Not any ring. His father’s emerald ring.

            I cease to function.

            Nervously, Scorpius says, “Okay, so I’m asking you to marry me. Now, I know that you’ll have some very good rebuttals. First off, we’ve only been together seven months and I was unconscious for two of those. My response is that I would argue we have been together in many different capacities for fourteen years, and we have been in love a lot longer than seven months. I don’t need any longer to be sure of this. I knew after a month that I wanted to marry you, but I thought that you might object to that, so I’ve waited, and if I wait anymore I will explode, and I’ve already died once this year, Albus, so we shan’t be doing that again.

            “Secondly, yes, I already proposed once this year, and to another person. That is valid. However, everyone involved knew that proposal was doomed to fail, and in my heart I think I knew that it would spell the end of the relationship. I made a mistake with that proposal, and if I could erase it—frankly, I wouldn’t, because it meant that I ended up with you. So I wouldn’t change it, and I think we should both count our lucky stars I made such a ridiculous decision.

            “I know it’s in your nature to immediately look for the cons when something good comes along, but when the opportunity arose for you to take a chance on me, on us, you did. You know what I know. The two of us are meant to be. And it’s worth risking heartache. It’s worth risking everything. There is no person living or dead who could convince me that you’re not the one for me. You are—you are the most wonderful man. You make me laugh until I cry, and tell me hard truths, and you make me come like a cannon. I love how you look, how you speak, how you love me. I will _never_ find anyone who loves me like you love me. You love me unselfishly. I could have never done what you did. I would have held onto you with all my strength, even if I knew it hurt you, because I couldn’t imagine a world you’re not in. You love me in a way I’m in awe of. You love me so much you let me go. I am staggered by how much you love me.

            “I have few plans. I don’t know where I’ll be in five years, ten years, thirty. I don’t know if this mad project of mine will work, or if we’ll have children. If I want to stay in Bedford or live in the Manor or travel the world like a nomad. My plan is _you_. I want to be your partner in all things. Until we’re old and grey, or if it’s earlier than that and heartbreaking. I want to know that when the world looks at us, they see us as we are. Family.”

            Scorpius cringes, looking at the ring. “There’s the slightest of caveats with the ring. Dad gives his blessing—I didn’t ask your father, because I don’t particularly care about his opinion when it comes to our relationship—but Dad’s all for it, and he even agreed when I asked for his ring. The only thing is, he’s insisting that you take my name if you accept. I know, it’s blackmail, and honestly, fuck it, it’s mine now, I can do with it as I please. I think. I don’t think he would have enchanted it—blimey, I’m getting off topic.”

            Regrouping, Scorpius raises the ring towards me hopefully. “Albus Severus Potter—it would be my deepest honour if you’d consent to marry me.”

            My voice small, I ask, “My name wouldn’t be Albus Potter?”

            Shrugging, Scorpius says, “I’m sure Dad wouldn’t have actually hexed it—”

            I burst into tears.

            Shocked, Scorpius yelps, “Oh! Oh no!” But I’m sobbing into my hands. Sobbing from the gut, wrenched up from the deeps. I feel Scorpius’ anxious hands on my head, my shoulders. “Sweetheart—oh no, please don’t—you don’t have to change your name, it doesn’t matter—it doesn’t have to be _this_ ring, it can be any ring, I was only trying to make a gesture—fuck, I know you hate it when I try to make gestures—oh love, please don’t cry—”

            Through my tears, I ask, “I’d be a Malfoy?”      

            Pausing, Scorpius looks at me with his worried silver eyes. “Do—you want to be?”

            “I’d be your Malfoy?”

            Scorpius takes my face in his hands. Nose almost to mine, Scorpius says firmly, “You would be _my_ Malfoy.”

            I start to nod.

            “Yes? Is that—is that a yes? Will you marry me?”

            “Yes!” I cry out. “Of course, just—put the bloody ring on my finger, put it on—”

            Scorpius takes my hand, and after some fumbling slides the ring onto my finger. It’s massive and heavy, but from the second I wear it, it’s like it was meant to be there. With a smile, Scorpius says, “Perfect fit.”

            He kisses me, then takes me in his arms. I bury my face in his shoulder, making my hand into a fist. Albus Malfoy. Albus Severus Malfoy. For the first time in my life, my name feels right. Scorpius sways me gently side to side, rubbing circles into my back. He murmurs to me, telling me all the right things.

            Scorpius says he’ll never let me go. And I believe him.


End file.
